


Common Sense

by grohiik



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemist!Harry, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Arthurian, Binns gets cliffed, Blood Magic, Books Are God, Dark Lords other than Voldemort, Dwarves, Earth Magic, Epic, Formal Courtship, Future Percy Weasley/Marcus Flint, Grey Harry, Harry's perspective is the frame, Hogwarts teachers are shit, Light Lords other than Dumbledore, M/M, Magical History, Minor Harry Potter/Fred Weasley, Nice Petunia, Parseltongue, Percy Weasley gets a speaking role, Petunia has character development, Ravenclaw Harry, Slow Burn, Smart!Harry, Wizarding Politics, complicated magic system, decorative!snake, pet snakes, there are three main characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 146,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grohiik/pseuds/grohiik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There hadn't been a Grey Lord in hundreds of years… not until Harry Potter. Born to the light, but marked by the dark, how would Harry's life have changed if he was the Grey Lord of the Wizards? With a little bit of of Arthurian legend and a whole lot of book-slinging, Harry changes the wizarding world using the one thing it sorely lacked: common sense. (Theoretically) on hiatus until May 2018 for Camp NaNoWriMo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [Year One] Books, Snakes, and Owl Post

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will cover all seven years of Hogwarts. Updates are sporadic, but I am consistently working on it, even if I haven't posted in a while-- updates just take a while due to the amount of research I have to do and the ever-increasing length of each chapter. This fic has a closed third-person point-of-view, and will feature perspectives from each of the three Lord characters, with Harry being front and center.
> 
> I am never quoting directly from the book at any point, but from memory of the book. This is on purpose, so that everything will be sufficiently changed that it's not boring to read, and because since everything is different, the dialogue should be different too. However, still spoilers for HP1-7, and I have pretty good recall. This is a re-imagining, not a re-telling.
> 
> Also, serious fair warning, I like Percy Weasley, and if I'm only writing one HP fic (which seems likely), he is naturally going to have a large role. I'm a big believer in fleshing out the parts of the wizarding world that J.K. Rowling only gave us a sketch of.
> 
> Since this fic is a work in progress, I prefer not to receive critical comments. They tend to hinder my writing process and keep me from writing. If you do send in critical comments despite my request, I will not respond to them.

_I think at this point in our people's history, a little candor and transparency might be appreciated. In that case, I would like to reveal my methods of data collection to you as well as my biases. Not only do I know Lord Harry James Potter, Earl of Griffon's Nest, as well as the other two Lords, but I greatly like him and consider him a personal friend as well as a protégé. In that way, you can see that our histories are intertwined. At points, this is my history as much as it is the history of the return of the Three Lords and the restoration of true magic to English wizards, after we very nearly lost it in the years prior to the Three Lords' return._

_By piecing together Pensieve memories and personal accounts from all three Lords, I have made my attempt to form a history true to how they saw it. I would like to point out that history is, as told by the word itself, nothing more than a story that actually did happen. Whether that history is "truly" true or whether it has been unduly influenced by each Lord's own biases is up to later generations to decide…._

_\-- Nicolas Flamel, from his book,_ The Return of the Three Lords: A History of English Magic

* * *

 

On All Hallow's Eve, a fifteen-month-old Harry Potter was abandoned on the doorstep of his non-magical relations in the heart of Surrey. In the houses and neighborhoods of his people all across Great Britain, parties raged while the remaining battles were still being fought, and one poor boy's parents were being driven insane under torture. Harry slept, caught beneath a sleeping charm that the most powerful man currently alive and corporeal in the Wizarding world, one Albus Dumbledore, had placed upon him before the abandonment.

Harry stirred a little in his blanket, charmed to be warm despite the brisk November chill the next morning, and looked around with bright green eyes as the sun began to crest the horizon, which was full of rubbish bins, milk bottles, and well-ordered lawns and front gardens. His home with his mother and father had been very different, though he would remember it only in the sense of never quite being content here in Little Whinging. Godric's Hollow had been a tangle of wildflowers, magical herbs, and little gold sports balls fluttering through the air on tiny wings. Little Whinging, meanwhile, was a neighborhood of houses whose lawns were cut in geometric patterns and measured to a certain height. Number Four, the home of Harry's aunt and uncle, was just one of many attractive brick houses that only differed by the gardens in front, which were the pride of the bored housewives who would call upon one another to snipe and gossip every afternoon.

Harry knew none of this. He only knew that he was somewhere strange. He also knew that his parents were dead. He had seen it happen, and his brain comprehended it on the most basic level. Quite naturally, he began to cry.

Petunia Dursley, his aunt, opened the door to put out the milk bottles, and she screamed.

 

* * *

 

Ten years passed. Harry grew, but not much. He was a tiny child, a full head shorter than his cousin Dudley, with a mass of jet black hair and bottle green eyes. Witch colors, he knew-- every witch from the story books had black hair and green eyes, and he suspected that was why the Dursleys wouldn't let him mention magic or unnatural things anywhere within the house.

Harry lay on his bed in the cupboard under the stairs, a torch in his hand with the beam firmly fixed on the book he was reading. Most novels were contraband in the Dursley household, since they told stories of things that hadn't happened yet. Television was all right, since the same actors played different roles and you could tell it wasn't real, but a novel took place in the imagination. The Dursleys liked imagination almost less than they liked Harry.

Harry had been five when he moved into the cupboard under the stairs. Dudley had finally had too many toys to fit them all in one room, so he now had his bedroom and his playroom, and since Harry had so few things, it had only made sense for Harry to sleep beneath the stairs. He was surprisingly comfortable, actually, since he was able to store books safely under his bed without Aunt Petunia seeing them while she cleaned the house, and his bed was heaped high with the blankets that Dudley was constantly managing to wreck or tear somehow, but which Harry was handily able to stitch back together for his own use. There were even some built in shelves against one of the walls, where if he was careful, Petunia wouldn't notice that he had books there as well.

Petunia rapped sharply on the cupboard door, "UP!" she shrieked. "Dudders' breakfast needs minding!"

Reluctantly, Harry turned off the torch and slipped a snippet of ribbon to mark his chapter before hiding the book in his blankets and getting off the bed.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he said, opening the door. "How can I help?"

Aunt Petunia scowled at him. She would have been a pretty woman if she wasn't always unhappy. She had a long, graceful neck and strawberry blonde hair, but a very thin mouth and a somewhat severe nose. She still looked like Harry, though, around her chin and eyes. It had comforted him a great deal when he was much younger and Dudley tried to insist they couldn't possibly be related at all.

Petunia swept ahead of him into the kitchen. "You just need to mind the bacon while I get the last of the table set," she said, stopping by the cupboards to get out her sturdy white China. Tableware had to be sturdy when Dudley was at the table; he had a habit of knocking things over when he was upset.

"All right," said Harry, watching as Petunia began to tuck glasses of orange juice and coffee in between Dudley's heap of presents. It seemed even bigger than last year, if possible, and some were even on the floor, like the mountain bike. Why Dudley wanted a bicycle, Harry hadn't the slightest idea. Dudley was tremendously fat, and only willingly exercised when he was chasing Harry.

Strange things happened around Harry when Dudley chased him. He would end up invisible, or on top of buildings; if they were in a class together and Harry didn't know the answer, Dudley would snicker and Harry would be so embarrassed that somehow when he looked up, the teacher's hair would be blue. That was why Harry made a solid effort to always know the answer, not only to the questions of a teacher, but to everything. He escaped Dudley by going to the library, where Dudley would never even think of setting foot, so they avoided each other as much as they could while living in the same household.

Dudley thundered down the stairs, followed shortly by Uncle Vernon, and they began taking inventory of the presents together. Harry placed the bacon, fried mushrooms, and tomatoes on the plates while Petunia finished up the poached eggs, putting them on a bed of creamed greens. They each took two plates and nudged them onto the table, Harry taking his own and Uncle Vernon's, Petunia taking hers and Dudley's.

Harry ate quickly while Dudley counted his presents. Harry had noticed that although they were bigger than last year, they were also fewer in number, and Dudley was sure to notice once he was finally able to finish counting. Math was not Dudley's strong suit.

"Cut your hair!" Vernon barked to Harry as a greeting. Harry finished off his food and ignored him.

"Aunt Petunia, I've finished. Can I go into the kitchen and begin cleaning up?"

Petunia nodded curtly and Harry left just as Dudley began to squall about his number of presents. As expected, something crashed. Harry was glad it hadn't been his breakfast.

The neighbor, Mrs. Figg, couldn't watch Harry, so Harry ended up going on Dudley's birthday outing with Dudley and Dudley's best friend, a rather nasty boy named Piers Polkiss who took special pleasure in holding Harry's arms behind his back so Dudley could punch him, and was always looking up the girls' skirts when they were on the swings.

Harry looked out the car window as Dudley and Piers shoved each other and spoke loudly about what ice cream they wanted to get when they arrived at the zoo. A group of motorbikes zoomed past, one ridden by a woman with bright pink hair flying beneath her helmet. Harry smiled a little. He was reminded of his dream, where he'd been flying over the treetops on a motorbike. It was fanciful, but lovely. He wished he could dye his hair like the girl, not that the Dursleys would ever allow it. "Punks and hooligans," Uncle Vernon always said. Harry supposed that dyeing his hair green to match his eyes would not please the Dursleys in the slightest.

Harry's mind was tripping hazily through the realm of Middle Earth, thinking about the grand adventure he would go on if he were a hobbit, when they finally pulled into the zoo parking lot. After making their way inside and getting ice cream for the boys-- even Harry, and though it was an oversight on the part of the Dursleys, Harry chose not to complain-- they made their way to the reptile house.

It was dark and dim, and smelled delightfully of green things and dark caves. Harry loved it-- the soft, cool, moist atmosphere, and while Dudley and Piers ran around knocking things over, Harry moved from exhibit to exhibit, looking at the deceptive snakes and thoughtful lizards. He stopped next to a Brazilian boa constrictor, which had its second eyelid drawn over its eyes and was probably sleeping. It was very large, but its colors were dull browns, and it he moved on shortly to look at the smaller snakes. Some of them seemed to almost glow in the grey light. In one of the small aquariums, he stopped next to the Smooth Snake, a rare snake native to Surrey. It was a female, soft grey-green in color with a blackish pattern on her head that looked like a wheel. She was very small and seemed to be inching as close to the heat lamp as she could.

"Poor thing. Are you cold?" Harry asked under his breath. She looked at him, unblinking, before nodding her head softly.

Harry narrowed his eyes. He hadn't had much cause to be around snakes, but he was fairly certain that they didn't speak the human tongue, last he had heard.

"Curious," he said mildly. "Do you have a name?"

She didn't move for a long moment before her tongue flickered out. "My name is Surana," she hissed softly. The words were strangely sibilant to Harry's ear, almost slurred, to the point of not sounding like the Queen's English at all. "What are you called, Speaker?"

"Harry. Harry Potter."

Her head reeled backward like she had been struck. "Harry Potter." She lingered over the words, like she recognized them.

Harry frowned. "Do you recognize my name? How can you speak English?"

"We're not sssspeaking English; we're sspeaking the language of the ssnakessss, Parseltongue," she said. She uncoiled herself, pressing as close to the glass as she could. Her eyes were golden, like those of a wolf, the pupils thin and utterly inhuman.

"Can all snakes speak? Is it magic?"

"All snakes can ssspeak _because_ all snakes are magic. You don't hear of hippopotami speakers, after all, and even Muggles hear of ssssnake charmers."

Harry considered that for a moment. "So some creatures are magical and some are not, and some entire species are magical and some are not."

"Correct. Like Wizards and Muggles, though of course those two can interbreed, due to both nominally appearing human."

"Mum! Dad! I'm booooored. Let's leave!"

Uncle Vernon's hand closed around Harry's shoulder. His fingers were thick and meaty, pressing hard into the oversized flannel of Harry's shirt, which was one of Dudley's cast-offs. "Let's go, boy," he said gruffly. Harry shook him off quickly.

"Why don't I stay here?" he suggested. "I swear I won't leave the reptile house, and you won't have to put up with me all day."

Vernon's eyes narrowed at him. "What are you up to, boy?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing! There's pamphlets and things here I'd like to read, and you know Dudley doesn't want to put up with me today. I'll be good, I swear. No funny business."

" _No funny business_ ," Vernon repeated. Harry's words had been a promise; Vernon's were a warning. Harry nodded and his family left. In the calm, dark building, Harry turned back toward Surana.

"So do dragons exist?" he asked her eagerly, careful to keep his voice soft so they wouldn't be heard.

"Of course!" Surana said. "Our cousinssss! But we are more closely related to wyverns, and dragons don't like to admit to the connection."

"Wyverns…?"

Harry spent most of the day talking with Surana in the reptile house. His legs were aching by the time the Dursleys returned for him. The caretakers of the reptile house were having him help him feed the snakes their dinners of mice, rats, and occasionally rabbits before the Dursleys trudged reluctantly back into the reptile house to retrieve Harry. Harry was talking with one of Surana's neighbors, a red and black snake from Honduras, while releasing a couple mice into the cage when Dudley suddenly yelled, "Look at what this snake is doing!"

Dudley was next to the Brazilian boa constrictor, which was finally awake and standing as tall as it could, staring at Harry and the Honduran milk snake.

"Cool!" Piers said, shoving Harry against the Honduran's terrarium to reach the boa. Harry's head bounced off the glass, his glasses cracking, but his pain barely registered because suddenly everyone was screaming. He looked around through his cracked glasses; all of the glass in the entire reptile house had disappeared. Harry could feel a sudden slithering as Surana crawled up his leg and wrapped herself around him, her greyish tail flickering out of sight.

The Brazilian boa zigged and zagged rapidly to the exit. "Thankssssss, amigo," it said. "Brazil, here I come."

One of the Texan snakes devoured its neighbor rapidly. Another couple snakes decided to mate in a ball in the corner. Dudley was screaming, and everyone was running around when Vernon's hand closed on Harry's shoulder again. "Boy…."

Harry sighed. He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he knew he would be blamed. Surana curled around him companionably, though, so he wasn't sure he cared.

 

* * *

 

The next week led to Harry missing the beginning of summer holiday, since he "wasn't to leave the cupboard unless it was on fire, and maybe not even then" according to Uncle Vernon. That was fine, though, since he could steal out of the cupboard at night to eat food, and Surana kept him company while he read. She couldn't read English, but was particularly interested when he read out loud to her The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.

"I've alwayssss wanted a hoard, like a dragon." Surana sighed wistfully. She was curled up over his legs as he read to her by torchlight. "Sssnakesss never get storiesss told about them, have you noticed?"

"People don't know snakes are magic," Harry said, trying to comfort her. "Dragons are flashier, not as subtle and wonderful. Someday, I'll write a story about you, promise."

"Thank you, Speaker. Are you going to read your letter now?"

Harry fished the aforementioned letter out from under his pillow deftly. When he had gotten the post for the Dursleys this morning, his punishment having just ended, there had been a letter for him, of all things. Not being an idiot, he had hid it from the Dursleys, but Aunt Petunia had needed help with getting things ready for tea with her friends tomorrow, so he had hidden it in his cupboard and hadn't yet had a chance to read it.

The script on it was old-fashioned, and the seal on the back even more so. There was no postage. Harry just held it for a moment. "I wonder if it's a letter that will whisk me away from here on an adventure." He sighed; Surana laughed, a hissing little thing, and her tongue tickled his bare toes.

"Why don't you open it and ssssee?"

She sounded very knowing. Harry was beginning to get an inkling that she knew more than she let on. He opened the letter.

"Congratulationssss, Speaker. You're a wizard." Surana crawled up his body, tucking her head under his chin as he read with wide eyes. "Now, we have a few things we musssst discuss."


	2. [Year One] Aunt Petunia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Petunia and Harry go to Diagon Alley. Tropes in this chapter include decorative snakes, stolen directly from Malfoy Flavor by Vorabiza and Snakes and Lions by GatewayGirl; Harry gets new glasses ftw; and "Ollivander is basically a male Luna and I love him."

Harry and Aunt Petunia were cleaning up from breakfast the next morning when Harry spoke up, elbow-deep in soapy water. "Aunt Petunia?"

"What?" she snapped. Her hair was curled and pinned back, ready for her tea later in the day. The pearls Harry knew Uncle Vernon had gotten her for their wedding were around her throat, luminescent in the morning sunshine streaming through the window over the sink that faced the front gardens.

"I'm going to be eleven soon. Just a few more weeks."

"I know," she said, like it was something particularly unpleasant that she wanted to do away with. "You know we won't be getting you anything-- Dudley's birthday is so expensive, and we can't spend anything on two so close together--"

"I know I'm a wizard, Aunt Petunia."

All the color drained from her face. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, like she wanted to say something but the words couldn't quite bite their way over her tongue and past her teeth.

"I-- I got my letter, to Hogwarts, and you won't have to spend anything-- apparently, I have a tuition fund all set up-- and if we… if we don't tell Uncle Vernon or Dudley, it won't have to affect them at all, they can just think I'm at Stonewall like we planned. I can stay away at Christmas hols and everything. I'll keep it all away from you and the family, I swear. I just need to go shopping for supplies, and a lift to the train station in September."

Surana and he had discussed it, and Harry agreed this was the best tactic to use with Petunia, who had apparently known about witchcraft and wizardry all through these years and never said a word. Surana knew the basics of the wizarding world, though she didn't have any personal experience with it. Her mother had taught her before they had been separated, and snakes remembered much of what they heard throughout their entire lives, even if they didn't always understand it. She knew there as a Minister of Magic, for example, but not who that was or what they did. Harry wanted to know and understand everything. He had to. He was apparently the Boy Who Lived, and he had a horrible suspicion that it meant he was like the chosen one of a million fantasy novels, who always had an awful time of it before getting any peace.

"I had hoped you wouldn't be one, not like my blasted sister." Petunia still seemed to be in shock, her hands tight around the dish towel. Harry continued washing, his hair falling into his eyes.

"But I am, and apparently my parents being killed and me living stopped a war or something? I don't know, but I don't think they'll let me not go to this school if I have the magic to go. Uncle Vernon and Dudley never have to know, Aunt Petunia. Dudley doesn't have to know that magic exists."

Petunia resumed drying. She looked vexed, and somehow heartbroken. Harry wasn't sure why, but he felt bad to make her feel like that, as awful as she was to him most times. All she wanted was to win the neighborhood garden contest and take care of her family. She didn't want to have a magic nephew, a dead sister, and talking snakes hidden in her broom cupboard.

"We'll go to Diagon Alley this morning, before I lose my nerve. I'll have to cancel tea." The dishes clattered as Petunia dried the plates, her hazel eyes severe as she looked down at Harry. "Vernon doesn't know I was going to have tea today, and Dudley will be with Piers until tomorrow. You'll tell no one we're going to London, and you'll keep your school supplies in your cupboard only."

"Diagon Alley? Where is that? And what if all my supplies don't fit in my cupboard? It sounds like I need a lot."

Petunia's thin lips tightened. "Don't ask questions," she snapped. "Get dressed for the day so we can go. I'll finish the dishes."

In the cupboard, Surana rose from the bed, staring at him as he started struggling his trousers on in the small space. "What happened? What'ssss going on?" she asked.

"She accepted. We're going to Diagon Alley. What's a Diagon Alley? Do you know? I'll wear a jacket if you want to lie over my shoulders and come."

Surana nodded rapidly and Harry found Dudley's gigantic, fleece-lined denim and put it on. When Petunia found them in the hall, she shook her head as she grabbed her scarf and purse. "You look ridiculous. It's July, for heaven's sake."

"I'm cold," Harry insisted.

Petunia shook her head. "You have your school list? I don't want to have to run back all the way from London just because you forgot your school list."

"No, I've got it." Harry bounced anxiously on his feet. He still didn't quite believe this was true, any of it, and he wanted to see this mysterious alley where he could get magic supplies.

They took Petunia's little yellow car into London, down some winding streets until they parked near an unmarked black door, sandwiched between two shops that were receiving a great deal more interest than the black door was. It seemed to be a bar, judging by the intoxicated state of the individual in front of it.

Petunia's lip curled as she took Harry's arm, stepping over the drunken lout with one delicate stride. "Come along, Harry," she said, sweeping through the door. Such a pub had probably never seen the upright, suburban likes of Petunia Dursley, but she made her way with purpose past the dingy tables to the bartender, toothless and balding. "I'm a Muggle," she said, through clenched teeth. "My nephew and I need to get into Diagon Alley."

The bartender laughed, stepping out from behind the bar. "Muggleborn, is he? First year at Hogwarts?"

"Half-blood," Petunia said, reluctantly following the man as he headed out the back door. "His mother and father were like you people as well, magic. But my sister left him to me, so I've got to do my duty."

The bartender looked a little curious. "Right good of you," was all he said, despite his look, before he tapped one of the bricks with what had to be a wand. Surana hissed with interest, but no one seemed to hear her, as the bricks began to move, shifting and jostling with creaks and moans. Harry gasped and stepped through the newly made archway.

Diagon Alley, said a sweeping sign just past the archway. The alley was made up of very close buildings and cobblestone streets, which were packed with witches, wizards, and all manner of creatures. Stacks of cauldrons lined the streets, and there were apothecaries and pictographical shop signs, just like was in the Middle Ages. Witches with carts shouted their wares, and a butcher cleaved his knife down on a strange violet creature with a distinctive THWACK against his cutting block.

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed. Petunia just sighed.

"Thank you for all your help," she told the bartender. "That will be all."

They stopped at Gringotts Bank first, since Petunia said that was where Harry's tuition fund would be located. It was run by goblins, naturally. Harry had read Christina Rosetti's Goblin Market and was somehow not surprised, but he did find it extremely pleasing to his sense of the romantic. The goblins had long noses and floppy, pointed ears; their skin was green, their eyes were clever, and their long, clawed fingers looked positively violent. Harry just wanted to grab one and question him for hours, if he wasn't certain that would be horribly impolite.

After they withdrew a discreet amount of money, following Harry having to pass a vast number of blood tests to get a new key to his vault made up, they headed back into the alley. Petunia looked around with clear distaste, not quite certain where to start.

Harry started to consult his list, but his eyes were caught by one of the signs, which depicted a pair of spectacles. His own were still cracked from the incident at the reptile house. "Aunt Petunia, why don't we start there, see if they can fix my glasses?" Harry asked.

Petunia nodded, seeming a little relieved at the apparent normalcy of a spectacle shop, at least, and they made their way up a flight of stairs and into the tiny little second-story shop.

"Ooh, hello," said the witch behind the counter, for she was clearly a witch. She wore a set of attractive pink robes and had a sash tied around her head, just above her horn-rimmed, cherry-colored glasses. "I see you've got quite a crack in your glasses, young man," she said when they approached. "You'll be wanting that fixed. And I can change the shape, make it more suitable to your lovely face. Such a cute little thing, you are. So small. My cousin's your age, but she's bigger than you, and she's a girl! But no matter, no matter. This'll be your mum?" she asked, looking at Petunia.

Harry shook his head, "No, my aunt. My mum's dead. Can you really do that?"

The witch looked sad suddenly, though Harry wasn't sure why. "Oh, yes, luvvy. Give 'em here, I'll fix 'em right up. You want any extra charms? Glass is a very useful substance. Mirrors can see into souls, and glass can be charmed to reveal ghosts, vampires, and many other hidden things. Base price is four galleons for the general fix, which includes water repellant and stronger glass, but I can give you an extra charm for just a few sickles per."

Harry's first instinct was to buy _everything_ , but he wasn't really sure what would be useful without knowing more about what he would encounter, so he shook his head. "No, thank you. But I'll definitely come back next year if I do decide I want one."

"All righty then." She whipped out her wand, a long, pale thing, and began muttering intensely. After a few moments, she tucked it away again. "There you go, now. You take a look-- quite charming, if I do say so myself." She held out a hand mirror to him and he took it. The glasses were more rectangular now, and far clearer for him to see out of, with a black frame on top and none on the bottom. When he turned his head, the black frame flashed green in the light, bringing out his eyes. He looked up at her and grinned. "Thank you," he said. "Four galleons?"

He paid her and they headed back out of the shop, moving naturally for Harry to get his school robes at Madam Malkin's, then toward the bookstore.

"I'll be quite a while, Aunt Petunia," he said, nodding at the book shop. "I can't imagine you'll want to be around so many books about magic. But there's an ice cream shop just over there if you want to wait…?"

She seemed a bit overwhelmed, so she didn't even question his motives, which for once were not the best. When she turned away, he was already pelting to the nearest pet shop.

"Surana, do you think they have more about snakes in here?" he asked her quietly as they looked through the store, which was full of hooting owls, chittering vermin, and meowing cats.

"I can hear some talking-- in the corner," Surana said, poking her head up a little to hiss into his ear.

In the back corner were the snakes, pure gold or silver, and no thicker than a pencil. If they stayed still, they looked like jewelry, which was apparently what they intended to be.

"The perfect gift for any Slytherin," Harry read on the sign. "The safest of snakes, bred from those that the Egyptians wore as jewelry. These Delicana Serpents will lay motionless curled around the arm or wrist, and only require a galleon or a sickle, depending on your serpent's color, every six months to stay untarnished."

"They are," declared Surana scornfully, "stupid."

She was right. They were talking back and forth across their cages, but all they were saying were things like "Warm," and "Stole from me!" and "Mine!"

Harry laughed. "They are, but I rather like them. The one serpent you won't be jealous of if I buy one, right?"

Surana snorted scornfully. "I don't need to be jealous, Speaker. I am clearly superior to all other snakes."

Harry bought one of the gold snakes. He said his name was Whisper before assembling himself into a motionless, if occasionally blinking, piece of jewelry, curling perfectly around Harry's upper arm without making the lump the two-foot long Surana would have. Harry chatted with the shopkeeper for a few moments about books on magical snakes and history that he could buy at the bookstore before heading back to said store to actually buy them.

He entered the bookstore and was in heaven. There was no other word for the teetering stacks of delicious, leather-bound books on every magical subject possible and a few that weren't. There was no way his Hogwarts trunk, even though he had gotten the special, private library version, would fit every single book he wanted, but he sure would try.

After he collected his aunt Petunia again and they got his potions supplies, their last stop was the wandmaker Ollivander's. The shop was way off to the side, but it had a steady stream of customers in and out. When Harry and his aunt walked in, Mr. Ollivander was behind the counter. His luminous eyes widened when they fixed on Harry.

"Why, Harry Potter," he said, sounding surprised. "Earlier than I expected. I thought that you would have more trouble convincing your relations to let you attend, but you seem to have reasoned your way through that predicament, eh?"

Harry just blinked.

"Oh well, little to say? Your father wasn't anything like that, nor your mother. James Potter was quite the braggart, very flashy. He had a solid wand, mahogany, quite good for transfigurations, if I remember correctly, which I do, of course. Your mother was more delicate-- you came with your sister, didn't you, Mrs. Dursley? I remember that day well-- and she had a swishy willow wand, good for charms and tricky work. Very smart, your mother, but a bit too bull-headed. Her friend that came with the family was always trying to tell her not to be so stubborn, but of course, that only made her more stubborn, the silly girl!" He shook his head, eyes lighting on the scar on Harry's forehead. Shaped like lightning, it had been there as long as he could remember. "Got that scar the day your parents died, and I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander said sadly. Petunia, suddenly smaller and more upright, looked rather angry as he said, "Phoenix feather and yew. Powerful wand. The Dark Lord was a great man. Terrible, yes, but great."

"This is all well and good," said Aunt Petunia, holding Harry by the shoulder.  "But can we get on with this? I have to get dinner on the table for my husband and I would like to get home in enough time to do so." Her hand let Harry shake off the wordless, tense confusion he had fallen into and he began to look around. The walls were full of thousands of cubbies, and in those cubbies were stacks of thin boxes that had to contain wands.

"Naturally, naturally." Ollivander began pulling boxes down, telling Harry to wave this wand and that, often with disastrous and explosive results, until finally they found Harry's wand: holly with a phoenix feather core.

"Curious," Ollivander said. Harry would remember his words for as long as he lived. "Very curious."

"What's curious?"

"I remember every wand I ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every one. And the phoenix that gave the tailfeather for me to create your wand gave another feather-- just one. It's curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother? Why, its brother gave you that scar."

"The Dark Lord?" Harry asked. Surana had explained some of it to him, but she didn't know everything, and didn't dare speak the name of the man her mother had told her was a Lord of Serpents as well as the Dark Lord himself.

"Yes, quite," said Ollivander, looking pleased. "What a bright boy, so bright. Your mother would be proud. Your father, perhaps less so. Quite a difficult boy he was, all told, but a good man. I wonder, will you be a great man, Harry Potter, or will you be a good one?"

 

* * *

 

On their way back from London late that afternoon, Aunt Petunia was silent for most of the ride before she finally said, "Don't forget. Tell no one. Keep your supplies hidden."

Harry nodded, but said nothing. He suspected her words were more for her to reassure herself than to threaten him, and he had every intention of reading the rest of the summer anyway.

 

* * *

 

The last month of summer flew by. Harry read his school books and all the rest he had picked up obsessively, in every minute where he wasn't helping Aunt Petunia with the gardening and cooking. He learned, reading to Surana and Whisper so they would learn as well, all about the hidden cities in Greece that were run entirely by wizards; about the goblin mines deep in the Antarctic; about the Wizengamot of England, which was quite a bit like the Muggle parliament except it was only made up of Lords, without any House of Commons; about the three kings that had once ruled England back in the time of the Saxons. He learned about the Hogwarts' house system and the great three wizarding schools of Europe; about the last Wizarding War and the fall of the Dark Lord; about Grindelwald; about the wizarding world's tentative peace with and place in non-magical English society. And this was all only the beginning, and to say nothing of the books on magic itself he read. By the time September came around and Petunia was driving him off to London ("Oh, Stonewall just wants him a bit early, dear. Did I forget to mention? Good news, isn't it?"), Harry was more than eager to actually see some of the things he had read about. He couldn't help but chatter about it to Aunt Petunia as they drove to King's Cross.

"Sphinxes actually guard the tombs in Egypt-- isn't it just brilliant? And apparently, the goblins have the run of most of the dig sites there. They're trying to find ancient wizarding artifacts, since they like to use them as leverage with the Wizengamot to get privileges to open banks and things in England, and apparently there's been some sort of leprechaun gold inflation in the past as well. They have quite a strong presence in Ireland, where the fae were last seen before they disappeared, but gold there is tapped out and Ireland is on their last limb of patience with goblin presence in their hills, even though goblins re-won the right to mine in some limited spots there in the late 1800s during the 87th Goblin War of Ireland. I think--"

"Be quiet, Harry," Petunia finally said as they parked the car and struggled to get Harry's trunk from the boot. "They mailed you your ticket last week? Are they still using Platform Nine and Three Quarters?"

Harry pulled the trunk along behind him, digging into his pocket. "Yes, it's Platform Nine and Three Quarters. How can a platform be nine and three quarters?"

"Wizarding space," Petunia grunted, obviously not paying much attention to anything other than scanning the crowds of the station for the correct platform. "They fit their space in between the seams between non-magical space, or they hid their space by stitching a pocket into space themselves-- I can't remember which. And don't ask questions!"

There was a brick wall between Platform Nine and Platform Ten. Petunia turned to look at Harry, her arms crossed. "Don't get into any trouble, and don't make any owls come home to bother me and your uncle." She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment. "Be careful," she warned. "Your headmaster told me that the Dark Lord is likely still about and isn't dead, but undoubtedly he still wants to kill you."

Harry's eyes widened. He was surprised Aunt Petunia bothered to warn him about it instead of letting it happen.

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia," he said.

"Just walk straight through the wall. It isn't real," Petunia said. She looked bitter, arms still crossed over her chest, jaw clenched, and very alone. "Nothing in your world is."

Harry nodded, giving her one last, lingering glance before walking through to Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

The Hogwarts train, scarlet and inviting, hooted at him. Children, teenagers, and their parents jostled about, everyone loading up their things. Harry smiled at the sight of all of the owls, toads, and black cats. Pointed hats everywhere: Hogwarts was going to be wonderful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updates are looking to happen every Sunday afternoon, until I say otherwise. I'm trying to keep two weeks ahead of my posting schedule, so I'm writing new chapters Sunday mornings plus occasionally during the week and editing Sunday afternoons. Thank you all for your warm responses to the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed chapter two. :)


	3. [Year One] Shock and Awe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a train, a boat, a castle, and a feast.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Harry asked the sleepy-eyed boy, trunk handle still in his hand. "It looks like the train is filling up fast, and higher years seem to have priority seating."

The boy's eyes cracked open a bit more. He had dark brown skin and long, black ringlets, a little browner than Harry's own hair. Harry couldn't tell the color of his eyes, since he was still too far away. He was wearing a set of blue robes, which probably meant he was wizardborn instead of Muggle-.

"Do you intend to make a ruckus?" the boy asked, brisk tone belying his lazy look. "I'd like to listen to music and I don't want to have to hear you talking instead."

"No, I want to read," Harry said.

"All right, then."

Harry stepped inside and slid the compartment door shut. With some difficulty, he managed to get his trunk into the overhead rack and settled into the seat across from the other boy. Taking one of his books out of the pocket of his jacket, he started to read about using the ley lines that ran throughout Europe and the UK, hoping that it would calm him a little and make him less nervous.

He had read all about Hogwarts, the school, and everything to expect, but he still felt a little nauseous to be away from the Dursleys and everything he knew. Usually, whenever the Dursleys did something different and fun, they either locked him in the cupboard under the stairs or bundled him off to stay with Mrs. Figg. It was strange to be doing something on his own.

Surana poked her head out of his collar, looking around. Her tongue flickered out briefly and he could hear her hissing laugh at the sight of the other boy before she slid down to drape herself more obviously around his neck. Harry ignored her. They had discussed it, and since it was perfectly acceptable to have a familiar at Hogwarts, she could be in the open, as she wasn't in the Dursleys. Harry wouldn't speak to her in public, though, since from what he had read wizards in England were prejudiced against Parseltongues.

"Why, in the bloody hell, do you have a snake?" the boy asked abruptly. Harry looked up. The boy's tone had been perfectly level, but he was staring at Surana.

"Because I like snakes. They stand for wisdom, did you know? Alchemists were all parseltongues, and many of their symbols have to do with snakes. It was only with the spread of Christianity that snakes began to be looked upon poorly."

The boy took his headphones off, pushing aside the device in his hands that appeared to be a palm-sized record player. "Interesting." He shook his head. "My name is Blaise Zabini." When Harry paused, he frowned. "It's customary at this juncture to give your own name."

Blaise had to be a pureblood, Harry decided, because most children wouldn't possibly dream of using a phrase like "customary at this juncture" unless their parents were nobility or lawyers.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said at last.

Blaise paused. It was a very long moment before he gave a sharp, decisive nod and said, "All right. So, do you think you'll be a Slytherin?"

Harry shrugged. He decided not to mention that he thought Blaise just wanted to listen to music, not talk; he didn't want to stop the boy from being friendly. "Maybe. I have a theory that the way the Sorting Hat sorts students is not by their strongest traits, but by how they would solve a problem. Like, "just charge in!" would be the Gryffindors. Ravenclaw would need to consult books before deciding the best course of action, Hufflepuffs wouldn't make a decision until they weighed how it would affect them and theirs, and Slytherins would do whatever was most beneficial. I think I'll be a Ravenclaw, actually, but it doesn't stop me from liking snakes."

He rubbed Surana's eye ridges fondly and she let out a purring hiss.

"Hm." Blaise stood up. "Can I touch it?"

"Surana?" Harry was careful to let it not come out in Parseltongue. Surana looked at Blaise and nodded, which made him blanch a little before he reached out, stroking her head gently.

"She's soft!" Blaise said, and smiled. He was very pretty for a boy when he smiled, but it might have had something to do with the ringlet curls. He sat beside Harry, still petting Surana, who crawled over to wrap herself around his arm.

"Warmmmm," she moaned. Harry could barely stifle a laugh.

"They say you were raised by Muggles," Blaise said. He obviously didn't want to ask in case Harry didn't want to tell.

Harry nodded. "I was, my aunt and uncle. Only my aunt knows I'm a wizard and that I'm going to Hogwarts. I didn't know anything about magic before July."

Blaise scowled. "I think that's illegal, or it should be! To keep a lord from knowing his birthright!"

"A lord?" Harry asked, frowning. "No, wait-- the Ancient and Noble Houses of England, right? The Potters certainly weren't one of the original thirteen, but I imagine that the name changed?"

"James Potter was the Earl of Griffon's Nest, or Lord Griffon. The earldom would have passed to you, making you the Lord Heir of Griffon's Nest until you come of age. Potter was descended from Godric Gryffindor, who was the Duke of the West, but he split the Dukedom up between his sons after the War of Vipers killed off his previous heir."

He sounded a little like he had swallowed a book on aristocratic lineage. Harry winced. He had always had a hard time keeping track of that kind of thing in his reading on Muggle England, and it was much harder to keep track of the boundaries of Magical England. The names tended to be different from the Muggle names, and then it got all jumbled up in his head.

"So I'm a lord," Harry said. The words felt heavy on his tongue. There was a very long distance between Number Four and the palace at Buckingham, and he didn't mean geographically.

Blaise shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it for a while yet. You'll have a steward and things running your business until you're older. At least you aren't one of the Three Lords."

Harry nodded glumly. "At least that." The Three Lords, who were also called the Three Kings, had ruled England not long after the fall of Camelot and were responsible for the definition of Dark, Light, and Grey magic. They were semi-mythological, and seemed to have insane powers that couldn't possibly be real. The legend stated that even though the original lords were dead, their magic was sleeping and would rise again when each kind of magic had an appropriate heir. Harry suspected that the Three Lords had inflated their legend for their own gain. Dark magic seemed to wake up more frequently than the others if there was any truth in it. There had been two supposed Dark Lords in recent history, Grindelwald and Voldemort, but no one had officially claimed the titles of Light or Grey Lord. It was bad enough to be the Boy Who Lived and the Lord of Griffon's Nest-- Harry certainly didn't want to be one of the destined saviors of magic.

 

* * *

 

After a long train ride and a quick trip across a lake in a boat ferried by what had to be a half-giant, Harry Potter was at last inside the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The castle was magnificent, all heavy stonework with a hodgepodge of towers. The windows were all tiny from the outside and magnificently large from the inside, and there were towers and a drawbridge. Ghosts floated about, barely visible, hailing from an assortment of points in history. Harry couldn't wait to learn more about them.

The other first years shuffled nervously around him. They were in front of the entire Great Hall of students, as Professor McGonagall took what seemed like an abnormally long amount of time to get down to business. One red-headed boy was going on about fighting a troll, and a brunette girl was talking about the ceiling, which was charmed to look like the sky outside. A very blonde, very pale boy, flanked by two behemoths that looked a bit like Dudley, looked like he was going to be sick.

Blaise was perfectly calm, though, so Harry knew it would be okay. Surana was curled in the hood of Harry's cloak and Whisper was around his arm. Everything would be fine.

Lifting his chin, Harry waited for McGonagall to call his name as the entire rest of the student body stared impatiently, obviously wanting to eat dinner. There were four tables and a head table, obviously one for each house. It didn't really encourage student mingling between the houses, actually, which gave credence to the high level of rivalry that Harry had read about in _Hogwarts, a History_.

Harry was considering the charm work it would take to create the ceiling when Professor McGonagall finally called out "Potter, Harry!" much to the shock of the rest of the students. They burst out into whispers, everyone craning to look more closely at him as he approached the stool in front of Professor McGonagall, clambering onto it-- it seemed quite high all of a sudden-- before the Sorting Hat dropped over his eyes.

"Hmm. Harry Potter, eh?" the Hat said. Surana let out a hiss of shock and the low murmur of the Hat, rustling in her place in his hood. Whisper, naturally, didn't say a word but tightened almost imperceptibly around Harry's arm. "Oh, hush now, snake. I have to sort through the thoughts of your charge here. Quite smart, you are, very smart. Brave, and cunning as well, but independent-- Hufflepuff wouldn't suit you at all. Not that you couldn't be loyal, but you don't exactly have anyone to be loyal to. No, you were right. Better be RAVENCLAW!" it shouted the word at the top of its lungs, supposing it had lungs. McGonagall whisked the hat off Harry's head. Harry blinked, since it had been so dark underneath the Sorting Hat. The Hall erupted into cheers and wolf-whistles, much louder than it had been for the previous sortings. Harry snorted a little, rising to his feet and making his way to the blue-tapestried Ravenclaw table.

Another first year, a Goth-looking boy named Michael Corner, gestured for him to sit close. Harry sat down beside them as McGonagall sharply called everyone to order before calling to the next boy up. It didn't take long at all before Blaise was headed, predictably, to Slytherin. Harry watched a little sadly as his new friend settled down across from the blonde boy. Their eyes locked briefly; Harry smiled, then looked away to scan over the crowds. The Gryffindors were positively overwhelmed by gingers at their table, including a very short, red-headed Irish that had to have leprechaun somewhere in his ancestry. At least three Hufflepuffs were hugging (completely stereotypical of the House) and the blonde first-year in Slytherin was staring down one of the upper years, his grey eyes flashing dangerously and obviously, even from this far away.

At the head table, the teachers loomed down, a forbidding group. Harry scanned over them only briefly before a long-bearded wizard stood. Harry had seen his picture in enough books to know that this was Albus Dumbledore. He had lush purple robes and a gold-spangled hat and looked completely ridiculous in every way.

"Attention, students! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! I know we are all eager to eat our meal after our long day of excitement, new beginnings, and happy reunions! However! I have a few words that I would like to say. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."

He sat back down again. Harry's brow furrowed as the food suddenly appeared on the table. Was it an anagram? A puzzle? What could it possibly mean?

Another Ravenclaw, not much older than Harry, clapped him on the shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. "Don't worry, Potter," the boy said jovially, grabbing food as fast as he could to place on his plate and Harry's. Harry wondered if he was trying to curry favor with the Boy Who Lived before he stopped the thought for being too cynical. He didn't forget it entirely, though. "He never has any purpose for his opening words; he just wants to bother the first years."

"Hmm."

Harry picked at his food. It tasted amazing, but he was too distracted by everything that was happening. The table never ran out of food. More just kept appearing every time a serving was taken. Spells were shooting from table to table. A Ravenclaw boy was surrounded by fluttering pink lights, courtesy of a Hufflepuff witch's spell. The professors at the head table were obviously drinking, probably a bit stressed now that they were faced with the influx of students. A dark-haired, hook-nosed professor, who looked a touch Middle Eastern, glared at Harry personally-- a supporter of the Dark Lord? Someone who had known Harry's parents? Someone who hated Ravenclaws?-- while taking long drags from his goblet. A turbaned professor looked at Harry and his arm jerked, flinging out wine in an arc all over the table.

Harry's head split. He winced rubbing his scar while Surana hissed, low and long. His pounding temples and the ache around his eyes remained while Harry stared at the professor. He was completely bald beneath the turban, but young, barely in his twenties.

Harry looked away, tabling it for another time to let the pain fade.

There were only three other boys in Ravenclaw this year: Terry Boot, who was talking a mile-a-minute to everyone who would listen and had a scar on his upper lip; Michael Corner, the Goth boy, who in contrast to Terry talked to no one; and Anthony Goldstein, who had hair the color of goldenrod and had a kind of quiet dignity most eleven-year-olds didn't have. They and everyone at the table stared at Harry, but didn't talk to him. For the most part, they were too busy considering what his presence _meant_ to talk to him. Harry didn't mind. It gave him time to think over his own position as well.

"The Michael Corner boy smells like old blood," Surana whispered to him, softly. Michael was right beside Harry, poking at his food like it had hurt him, so Surana could smell him well.

"I don't know what to do with that," Harry hissed back to her, stabbing his steak and kidney pie. He snuck a look over. There were no visible wounds or bruises.

"Nothing. He issss not _your_ problem."

Harry heaved a sigh, looking over at Blaise. He missed the uncomplicated discussion from the train already: politics, history, and snakes. His new house would never like him. He knew it already.

At the end of the meal, Dumbledore rose to his feet again. As the dishes evaporated, the headmaster took a deep breath, his hat dipping low. "As always, I must give a few start-of-term announcements before we are allowed to retire to our beds. Students would do well to remember that the Forbidden Forest is, as named, forbidden! Students should not venture into the forest unless they wish for an excruciating death.

"Mr. Filch has posted a revised list of Zonko's products which are strictly not allowed on Hogwarts grounds, and has asked me to remind you that magic should not be used in corridors.

Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of our term, so please seek out your house's Quidditch captains or Madam Hooch for more details if you desire to participate in sporting events this year.

Finally, students are advised not to enter the third floor corridor on the right-hand side, unless you seek a death more painful than any the Forbidden Forest could possibly provide.

As always, I wish you a fine year, and would like to lead us in our school song--"

Harry completely missed the song, too focused on the phrase that repeated in his mind: "a death more painful than any." Could Dumbledore possibly mean it? Why would he tell a school full of hot-headed teenagers something so obviously daring? It was almost a tease, but despite himself, Harry had to know more.

And just what was in the Forbidden Forest, anyway?

After the song concluded, much to Harry's relief, a pair of students stood up. "First years," said the girl, who had curly, wheat-colored hair and a serious face, ''please follow us." She began to move away, clearly expecting them to follow her. Scrambling off the benches, Harry and the other first years fell into step behind her.

"In case you didn't manage to catch our names, mine is Penelope Clearwater and this is Edward Grant. We are both prefects, and have charge of you this year-- please, keep up."

They were winding their way through the dark halls, apparently alone; Harry would guess they allowed the first-years and prefects out of the Great Hall before the rest of the students, so they could find their way back to their dormitories before the rest of the students mobbed the place.

"You're Ravenclaws-- we already know you're bright," Grant said, pushing aside a tapestry to gesture them all through a hidden passageway. "But it should be made clear that you're all expected to do well in your classes. This first year, you should keep your heads down, see and learn everything you can, and not contribute until you have something to say. We don't appreciate flash here. We appreciate fully formed ideas, and as first years, you're barely tadpoles."

They stopped in front of a gigantic blue door. On the door was an eagle-shaped knocker, and just to the left was a statue of a lovely woman, a crown gently encircling her head.

Clearwater raised the knocker once and let it fall. The eagle's eyes cracked open. "The last breath wasn't shared. Why?" it asked, voice a smooth and mellow.

Clearwater smiled. It gentled her face, making her look almost sweet. "A broken heart."

The door swept open. The Ravenclaw common room was full of comfortable grey armchairs, countless, dark-stained bookcases, and blue tapestries. Stairs wound up both sides of the tower, leading to more common areas as well as dormitories. More bookcases lined the staircases and all the walls. There was a warm fire crackling in a pit in the center, alive with blue flame.

"Welcome to Ravenclaw," Grant said. "Don't screw it up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're into it, folks! A couple of notes: I am disregarding the supposed curse on the DADA position, since HP1 clearly indicates that this is not Quirrell's first year teaching. (He isn't introduced at the Welcoming Feast, Hagrid already knows who he is, he was a fine teacher BEFORE he went to Albania, etc.) I am also disregarding anything from interviews and Pottermore, so if a character didn't actually appear in the book, they do not exist to me. Thus, Harry's class in Ravenclaw is three boys, other than himself, and four girls. I am rapidly becoming fonder of them that I intended. Michael Corner is not being abused, for the record, and I look forward to his plot arc coming out in due time. Lastly, Harry is correct on the "superpowered lord" front: I can guarantee there are no superpowers here.


	4. [Year One] The Subtle Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his first few days at Hogwarts. Snape gives the Ravenclaw edition of his epic speech, which (since I refuse to believe he didn't rehearse that) is fairly close to his original.

As much as Harry hated the Dursleys' house at Number Four, he loved Hogwarts. Hogwarts had secret passages and moving staircases, hidden rooms, talking portraits and mirrors, and best of all, magical students who didn't treat Harry like he was a freak. Well, that wasn't actually the best of all-- Hogwarts had a library. It had multiple floors all rising around a hollow center, where Madam Pince sat at her floating desk with her spectacles on, glaring at everyone who touched the books like a dragon guarding her hoard. They were meticulously organised by subject, ranging from the extremely academic to wizarding children's books. In the tour they were given on their first day after the train ride, Harry had been bodily dragged away by the long-suffering Ravenclaw prefects, who muttered "one every year" under their breaths.

Classes started the day after the tour. The way that Hogwarts scheduled classes was very odd to Harry. A standard first-year schedule only had six classes, which meant that there was very rarely a day that was actually scheduled without large breaks and study periods. A Muggle school would have eight or more classes that the students were working on, and very little study time. Hogwarts might have done it this way because the classes were much more intense than Muggle classes were. Theory was taught a little as part of every class, and Professor McGonagall ran a period dedicated to it on Tuesday mornings before Transfiguration. Herbology had classes three days a week: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the evening after dinner, so that students could see plants at different stages of the day. Astronomy was midnight on Fridays, and was taught simultaneously to all years of Ravenclaw at once, leading most of Ravenclaw to oversleep on Saturdays. There was so much time outside of class available to study that Harry was sure that students who didn't know how to manage their time well would end up not studying at all.

Their first day of classes was a Tuesday, meaning that after a morning of theory and changing matchsticks to needles with Professor McGonagall, Harry's lunch was followed by Herbology with Professor Sprout and History of Magic with the ghost, Professor Binns.

Herbology was out in the greenhouses, on the far side of the stables. Each greenhouse was meticulously kept at very specific temperatures, ranging from incredibly hot to a horrific, breath-stealing cold. The very last greenhouse of the thirteen available was labeled very specifically as belonging to the Potions master, Professor Snape, and if any first-years so much as dared entrance, they would not only receive detention for a year, but would also be docked one hundred house points before being summarily locked in a coffin and starved.

Harry hadn't met Professor Snape, but he found the man's imagination rather stimulating.

Professor Sprout was a short, round woman with stringy brown curls and a happy, broad face. She waited for them in front of the greenhouses as all of Harry's year of Ravenclaw trudged over to meet her. Padma Patil and Mandy Brocklehurst, two of the first year girls, were talking about wizarding bleeding hearts, which were like you would think Muggle bleeding hearts were if you weren't aware they were actually just a lovely red flower, and Professor Sprout was drawn into their conversation as the girls approached her to ask whether bleeding heart or bloodroot was more effective in a certain love potion.

The Slytherins were already waiting, a motley assortment of children who looked like either budding thugs or delicate aristocrats who would sooner die than place their fragile hands in the dirt. The blonde boy, who Harry now knew was Draco Malfoy, was pulling on gloves with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Beside him, Blaise met Harry's eyes. His own were suddenly cheerful instead of bored as he broke from the group to meet with Harry.

"How's Surana?" he asked.

Harry laughed, making Terry and Anthony beside him give him a strange look. The boys hadn't spoken much to him yet; he was sure they thought him the epitome of arrogance, considering he was the Boy Who Lived.

"She doesn't seem to like the castle. Too cold," Harry explained.

Surana poked her head out of his hood, making both other Ravenclaws recoil rapidly. Blaise stepped closer, reaching out his hand. Surana gratefully wrapped herself up his arm and tucked her head under his chin.

"Sssstupid wizardsss, coming to a freezing place like thisss," she grumbled. "I shouldn't be here."

"How do you like your classes so far?" Blaise asked, stroking a hand over Surana's back.

Harry shrugged. "There's loads of free time, which lets me to get extra studying done, and the theory we were taught by Professor McGonagall is neat-- apparently our class in Astronomy will teach us more, since the current idea is that our magic is derived from the movement of planets and stars. 'Course, that doesn't explain blood magic and the Three Lords, who were supposed to have got their power by chaining themselves to the Earth. Unless, of course, you view Earth in the broader spectrum of its place as a planet within the solar system and the universe, and in that case, the ramifications are fascinating. What would magic be like on Mars, for example?"

"That's some of what we'll be learning in Herbology, Mr. Potter!" Professor Sprout said, her cheery voice breaking in abruptly. Blaise stepped back again, face suddenly very bored again. He stayed beside Harry, though. "Herbology is Earth magic!" she said, "one of the simplest and most powerful. Of course, we don't teach blood magic at Hogwarts, but some of the theories regarding why it works are part of astronomy as well-- when you have your class with Professor Sinistra, she might be able to suggest some resources you would like!"

"Thank you, professor." He liked that she hadn't made a big fuss over his name; even Professor McGonagall had had a brief pause this morning.

"Today, though, we will be talking about basic safety and then work on our first cuttings to start our personal magic gardens! Over the course of your education at Hogwarts, each student will develop a personal garden of herbs and fungi to take with them as they become adult wizards. Why don't we go into the greenhouse and begin?"

Harry sat beside Blaise, which caused a susurrus of whispers between the other Ravenclaws. Lisa Turpin, paired with Michael Corner, actually craned her neck to look at them when Padma whispered to her about Blaise and Surana. Harry barely resisted the urge to sigh. He didn't _have_ to hide Surana, since familiars were readily allowed in Hogwarts, but apparently an association with snakes-- whether they were Slytherins or actual snakes-- would gain him as much ill-favor as speaking parseltongue would.

After Herbology was History of Magic, taught by the ghost Binns, who was already mid-sentence by the time they arrived, lecturing dully to an empty room. History of Magic was also with the Slytherins, so the next time Harry was alone with the Ravenclaws was on their way to the common room.

"What are you doing talking with Zabini?" Terry asked, jabbing a finger into Harry's shoulder the second the common room door closed behind them. "Everyone knows that Slytherins--"

"--are not to be trusted," Harry finished, quite fed up with this. "Ravenclaws are supposed to be smart! Use your brain and don't judge an entire group until you know every individual person. Otherwise, you're just a bully. It's no wonder Slytherins are nasty to the other houses if the other houses are nasty to them."

"He has a point," Michael said, as Terry gaped. "We're only first-years. The Slytherins haven't done anything bad to us."

"Well, he has a snake!" Terry tried again.

"I actually like snakes," Mandy said, taking a seat on one of the couches and opening her bag to take out a book. "My mother is an alchemist, and we have them around all the time.

"Parseltongue is very common in India," Padma said, sitting beside Morag MacDougall on another couch. "My grandmother is a parseltongue, and her house is full of snakes."

Terry threw his arms up and sighed. "Everyone is against me!"

"Only when you're dumb," Anthony said, patting him on the shoulder. The rest of the first-years laughed, and then, suddenly, everything was okay again.

They might not even hate Harry if he revealed he was a parseltongue, not that he wanted to find out.

 

* * *

 

Harry ended up spending many of his numerous free periods in the library with Blaise. Blaise liked Surana, and gradually, Harry started to believe that Blaise rather liked him as well. Blaise would take off his headphones when Harry approached, his black curls springing out and his face more open than Harry had seen it with anyone else. He liked Blaise, too. Blaise was very smart, even though he didn't put in very much effort, and always had something interesting to say about any given subject. Harry's one worry about Blaise's house being able to influence him more than the Ravenclaws influenced Harry had been put to rest after his first Potions class.

Potions class was a double-period on Wednesday afternoons. All the students, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, were already in the room when Professor Snape swept in, his robes billowing dramatically around him in a way that simultaneously suggested that Snape was very thin and that he had an exquisite tailor.

His voice was soft when he began to speak, barely louder than the crackle of the cauldrons. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." He paused, letting that sink in as he reached the front of the room, spinning on a heel. His face was shadowed by the poor lighting and the flickering flames beneath the cauldrons at each work station. "We don't deal with wands here. In your other classes, you will be shocked by the flash and bang of noisier, more obvious magics, and because of your ignorance, will doubtless find them far more interesting than what we will do with a few ingredients, liquid, and flame. Many of you will fail to appreciate or understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the fragile strength of what liquids can slip unseen through human bodies, bewitching the mind. Ensnaring the senses. I can teach you countless untold, subtle secrets-- if you are not the foolish idiots normally found within Hogwarts' halls. But I hold no false hope." He reached down with one skeletal hand to pick up a roll of parchment from his desk and unrolled it with a snap.

"Hannah Abbott," he read, tongue rolling over the words like he wanted to consume them. He began to walk around the room again, head held high. Harry was fascinated. The way the man commanded a room was truly remarkable. Professor Snape had a _presence_. It was unmistakable, something that Uncle Vernon would only be able to dream at. He was also obviously rude and unpleasant. What that would mean for his teaching skills, Harry couldn't be sure.

Harry was so caught up watching Professor Snape that he was actually a little shocked when his own name was called. "Ahh…. Harry Potter. Our newest… celebrity." Snape's voice was so delicate and precise on the last word that Harry didn't realise for a moment that he had been insulted. His eyes narrowed.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter, what would I get if I added a powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry frowned. "Probably a poison, since asphodel and wormwood are both poisonous." He actually knew that from his fantasy novels, not his school books. In many of his novels, people ended up getting poisoned at an uncomfortably frequent rate. "Weren't you taking roll, sir? There's still at least one name you haven't called."

Snape looked so angry for a moment that Harry was sure that if he could, Snape would have struck him. It was a familiar enough look, though Uncle Vernon always turned vermillion rather than going stark white. Snape clearly despised Harry, but Harry had no idea why. Snape gathered himself together so quickly that Harry wasn't sure that he had really seen that look before Snape began pacing the room again.

"Quite right, Mr. Potter. I am glad your faculties haven't entirely deserted you, although the answer I was looking for is derived from the methods of preparation for both ingredients: _powdered_ asphodel and an _infusion_ of wormwood, since methods of preparation can change the way ingredients interact. Mr. Smith, since you are the last on my list, as Mr. Potter has so kindly reminded us, what conclusion does that knowledge lead us to?"

Zacharias flushed and stuttered for a few minutes. Harry began to take notes for further inquiry regarding methods of preparations for potions. He was a little afraid to ask Snape, in case his head was bitten off, but surely that would be something they would be working on.

Snape never gave out encouragement. When someone got the answer right, they received a kind of backhanded compliment in how Snape never would have suspected them to know anything, which begged the question of why he bothered to ask the question. Nevertheless, the class was kept moving, quickly moving from the introduction to notes on ingredient preparation to brewing a very basic potion that would go horribly wrong (Professor Snape assured them) if they failed to prepare the ingredients correctly. Other classes had begun with short icebreakers, to introduce the students to one another as well as their professor. Snape didn't bother with that, letting them hang on his every word and work as hard as they could to meet his approval. Harry barely had a few minutes to jot down a few questions he had on the material, he was kept working so hard. Snape popped up out of nowhere every few seconds to question every little thing Harry did, critiquing everything from Harry's technique with a knife-- ("Sloppy, Mr. Potter, sloppy. I suppose we mustn't expect celebrities to have been exposed even to the basics of cooking, much less the careful preparation of bat wings.")-- to Harry's failure to stoke his fire at the appropriate time to allow his liquid to boil faster-- ("I assume heroes such as yourself have all day, Mr. Potter, but sadly we do not.") Surana spent the entire time muttering angrily to herself, but Harry didn't have time to spare to reassure her.

Potions let out after four thirty in the afternoon. Harry's classmates staggered out like they had survived a battle. The Hufflepuffs were, as a whole, complaining like they had been beaten with sticks. The Ravenclaws were loudly protesting about how if there had been more time, they were sure their potions would have been better. It barely registered to Harry, who separated from them after a few paces to head to the dungeon entrance of the library. The library had several entrances on all of the floors, and the highest portion of it was the tower across from Ravenclaw's dormitory.

Harry was deep in the Potions section of the library when Blaise, a sulky pout on his face, finally managed to find him.

"Harry, what the bloody hell are you doing?" he asked plaintively. "I thought you intended to meet me in the Great Hall."

Harry blinked up at him from his mound of books. "Oh. Right. Sorry. Potions. Snape hates me."

"No, Snape hates everyone." Blaise sat down beside the book pile. Surana crawled off of a copy of _Pleasant Potions Using Poppies_ and draped herself over his knees.

Harry shook his head. "No, I think he just hates me. Everyone else is annoying, but me he hates. He wanted to anger me by calling me incompetent, so I would yell, so he could take points or give detentions. I didn't yell. I'm not a Gryffindor. I'll get better instead, so he won't have an excuse to take points." He looked at Surana, who was giving out a sort of hissing purr as Blaise's hand trailed down your back.

Blaise was silent, thoughtful. "They say he supported You-Know-Who. There were trials at the end of the war, where all accused Death Eaters had to sit and be convicted or forgiven, if they were even given a trial. They say Professor Snape was given a trial and was acquitted. They say he was a Death Eater, but he wasn't punished for it."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Really? They let a Death Eater work with children? Even if he was acquitted, that still seems like a poor choice on the headmaster's part."

Blaise shook his head, but didn't say anything. He still looked like he was struggling with something. Harry was worried he would decide it was too much work to be friends with Harry. Snape was his Head of House. He could make Blaise's life very unpleasant if he wanted to, just like Dudley had always made unpleasant the lives of any of their schoolmates who wanted to befriend Harry.

"I'll see if there's anything else that Mother can find out and report back to you," Blaise said finally. "It might be something other than that. If he continues to bully you, I'll help you lodge a formal complaint with the school." Blaise nodded firmly to himself and then looked over at Harry. "So we're studying Potions, are we?" The lazy smile uncurling over his lips made Harry's heart clench.

Harry grinned. "Yeah, lots of potions for the foreseeable future."

"Good thing I'm good at Potions. I'm pretty sure that's how Mother got rid of at least two of her husbands. Let's lug these to the tables and see what's worth keeping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The class schedule for first and second years was painful for me to work out, since they have so few classes! I even made the classes a bit longer than normal (55 minutes rather than 50). I didn't want to do a rotating schedule, because I absolutely despise trying to work that out, so I'm using a stable block-schedule format. If anyone wants to see my working copy of the class schedule for first year Ravenclaws, let me know and I'll figure out how to post it!
> 
> I have reimagined the Hogwarts library. It is awesomer now. I am not ashamed.


	5. [Year One] New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great many people are introduced, and also there is a troll.

Hogwarts was so large that only the slightest fraction of rooms were actually being used. That was how Harry found himself in an abandoned sitting room, reading Madeleine L'Engle's _A Wrinkle in Time_ upside-down on a chaise longue while Blaise sat beside him, bare feet shoved under Harry's side. Blaise was listening to music again, the barest, tinny sound making its way to Harry's ears. His brow was furrowed, though, and Harry wasn't surprised when he took off the headphones, toes curling against Harry's ribs.

"You know Draco Malfoy?"

Harry snorted, setting his book down open-faced on his chest. "You mean our classmate, the prissy blonde who's always arguing with that Weasley boy? Never met him, mate."

Blaise kicked him gently. Over his head, the constellations that patterned the blue walls of the room revolved slowly, making it look like he was showered in stardust. "Don't be a prick, Potter. Malfoy isn't that bad. He's a bit girlish, but he's not a bad sort. He can be spoiled, and a prat, and--"

"He sounds delightful," Harry broke in. Blaise rolled his eyes.

"I'm just saying, he's not perfect. But I've known him since we were little. My mother once tried to snare his father, before Lady Malfoy threatened to put poison in her tea, and now the two of them are great friends and for some reason get together, for tea, every week. Regardless, we've been friends since we were in nappies together, and he would like a formal introduction to you, the Boy Who Lived. You know, lord to lord and all that."

"Oh." Harry was a little disappointed somehow, a heavy weight on his chest. No one had wanted to know him before, because of Dudley, and now everyone wanted to know him, because he was the Boy Who Lived. He had hoped that Blaise wouldn't use it, but he shouldn't have been surprised. "But we've already met. We're in the same classes."

Blaise sighed. "This is a formality. Nobility has to be introduced to one another in a certain way. It means you can associate with one another as acquaintances or friends rather than people who happen to pass one another in a classroom."

Harry peeked a look at Blaise's face, which had the normal, sleepy look that said he was thinking hard. "Yeah, I guess that's fine. When?"

"After dinner, in the library?"

Harry shrugged. He still felt a little hurt and didn't want to make an effort. "Yeah, s'fine."

Blaise hesitated, then dug his feet further under Harry's side, pulling his headphones back on. "Thanks, Harry."

 

* * *

 

That night, in the library, Blaise introduced Draco Malfoy to Harry Potter. It was probably the first time that Harry had ever seen Malfoy without his two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle. He looked smaller without them by his side, his hair slicked harshly away from his pale face. His handshake was almost nervous, palm cold and dry against Harry's own.

"Harry, this is Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy, Heir of the Earldom of Aerie. Draco, Lord Harry James Potter, Earl of Griffon's Nest."

Malfoy bowed his head over their clasped hands. Harry, awkwardly, did the same thing. They broke apart, but Harry could feel his magic tingling in his fingertips, like it did just before he used his wand. It felt strange, like something had happened, but he wasn't sure what.

"Potter," Malfoy acknowledged.

"Malfoy," replied Harry.

"Oh Merlin, I'm going to get some Chocolate Frogs," Blaise huffed. "You people are ridiculous. Introduce him to Surana, Harry." Blaise swept away, almost stomping. Before he had gotten far, Madam Pince and her entire floating desk swooped down, berating him for his noise in her shrill voice. Harry stifled a laugh before turning back to Malfoy, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

"Surana?" he asked.

At her name, Surana uncoiled herself from the pocket of Harry's robes, head rising to look at Malfoy. The blonde boy blinked, head tilting.

"She's lovely," he said, voice admiring. "She's a Smooth Snake?"

Harry nodded. "She broke out of a zoo exhibit to follow me home, just before I got my Hogwarts letter. Well, all the glass in the zoo disappeared because I was upset, but she did follow me."

"You're full of surprises, Potter."

Unlike with Blaise, who she launched herself at with every opportunity, Surana just blinked sleepily at Malfoy and dropped back into the deep pocket of Harry's robes.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Blaise," Malfoy said, crossing his arms over his chest. Harry shifted on his feet, wishing they could just sit at the table next to them, but not comfortable doing so first.

"I like Blaise. Surana likes Blaise. He's very smart." And funny, and interesting. He listened to music constantly-- what was the deal with that miniature record player thing anyway?-- and was always warm enough that if Harry leaned against him, he would be warm too. He was the friend Harry had always wanted, despite him wanting to use Harry being the Boy Who Lived with Malfoy.

"I like Blaise too. You know about his mother?"

Harry frowned, thrown by the sudden change in topic. "Yes…. And her husbands, at least two of which she poisoned?"

"And that doesn't bother you? It doesn't get your heart all in a twist about the fact that his mother may have killed at least two men?"

Harry still couldn't figure out what Malfoy was getting at. "No. Why would it? I don't know her, but if it isn't bothering Blaise, I'm sure that she killed them because they deserved it or she needed to. Blaise wouldn't talk about it like he does if they hadn't deserved it."

Malfoy still didn't move. "And his mother still hasn't managed to marry her way into a lordship for him, you know that, right?"

"I don't care!" Harry shook his head, dropping into a chair at the table. He wasn't bothered any longer by respecting Malfoy and wondering what the rules were for a first meeting between two lords. "Why? Do you care? Because if that's something that bothers you, Malfoy, I'm going to make certain that Blaise knows exactly what his supposed 'friend' thinks of him."

Strangely, Malfoy smiled at that, sitting across from Harry.

"Thank Merlin." At Harry's choked laugh, he explained, "Blaise is the only one of my friends who has a brain. Crabbe and Goyle can barely keep up on the best of days. He's well-connected, ambitious, and smart. He's also as loyal as a Hufflepuff, and I can never figure out who he'll attach himself to. It never works out. He always decides on the most inappropriate people. He had to twist my arm to get me to meet you, even if you are Harry Potter. I didn't want to have to hurt you if I met you and found out you weren't worth his time."

"He said you wanted to meet me, though, not that he wanted you to meet me." Harry was starting to get a warm feeling, like maybe Blaise had wanted to introduce his friends and hadn't known how to ask.

"A Slytherin's true intentions are never obvious, even if they are good," Malfoy quoted loftily. "Say, while we're here, what're you doing for Binns' paper tomorrow? I've finished mine, but I've no idea whether he bothers to read them or not, so I never edit them."

When Blaise came back, Malfoy and Harry were chatting about goblin politics. He dumped a load of Chocolate Frogs on the table and stuck a blood pop in his mouth.

"What're we talking on?" he asked, through the lolly. They looked at him, then each other, and burst out laughing. Harry had never seen the prim and proper Malfoy boy laugh, and it was a good look on him. The warm, clear light from the globes that lit the library sparkled through his blonde hair, though it didn't look half as good as the surprised look in Blaise's brown eyes. "What?"

When they finally left the library, Harry had to cross the hall to the Ravenclaw tower and the two Slytherins headed back down to the dungeons. He waved to them before turning, running directly into Percy Weasley's chest.

"Oomph!" Harry grunted, rubbing his nose. Percy peered down at him through his frameless glasses. He had a disapproving look firmly settled onto his face, which made him look a little like Madam Pince. Harry thought wildly that he would make an excellent librarian.

"A little late leaving the library, aren't you?" the prefect said.

"Sorry," Harry said. "I'm just heading back to Ravenclaw tower. It's right over there, you know. Madam Pince always lets me leave last thing."

"Hm." Weasley paused. "You've got a lot of Slytherin friends, Harry. Penelope tells me you aren't very friendly with the people of your own house."

Harry had no idea why Weasley thought it was his business. "Yes…," he said. "I met Blaise on the train over and he's known Malfoy since they were little. My housemates and I get along well enough, though."

"You should try to make friends with your own house, Harry. They're excellent people if Penelope is any standard to judge them by, and it would fill the time between classes and after-hours. Or I could introduce you to my brother Ron. He's in your year, and he could help you make friends with the right sort. What with Gringotts being broken into and the goblins being all in a stir about a flux of dark magic in that vault, it might be worth it, making sure you know the right sort."

Harry stiffened, drawing himself upright like Aunt Petunia at her most proper. He could feel the steel entering his spine, magic snapping at his fingertips like it had when he had shaken hands with Malfoy.

"No. Thanks." He drew a breath and let it out. "I can decide for myself who is the wrong sort." His magic flared, silently cracking one of the stones beneath his feet before it settled down to hum silently in his veins.

"It's just surprising," Weasley insisted, oblivious to Harry's poor control and rising temper, "given your parents. They were killed by a Slytherin."

"No, they were killed by a Dark Lord. An insane Dark Lord, a terrorist," Harry corrected flatly. "Being Slytherin has nothing to do with it. Wizarding society needs to get over this preoccupation with the houses they were sorted into in school. Your house doesn't define who you are. Your magic doesn't define who you are. All that matters are the choices you make." He remembered Ollivander's words to him in the wand shop: would he be a good man or a great one, like it had to be one or the other. Harry would rather be both. "I need to get to my dormitory before curfew. Thank you, Weasley, for your concern. But maybe you're the one that needs to reconsider your choices."

He walked past Weasley, who didn't stop him, instead just watching him pass with a pensive expression on his face.

The problem was, honestly, that Harry had no idea how to interact with his housemates. They weren't very open or friendly, and even though they didn't snub him, they didn't reach out in an effort to talk to him either. There was the one second year, Marcus Belby, who had tried to be friendly that first day at the feast, but Harry was pretty sure he had only done it because Harry was the Boy Who Lived. Since Harry spent most of his time in the Night Room, as he had named the sitting room where he and Blaise spent their time, or the library with Blaise, he didn't ever get to talk to them about homework in the common room or anything like that. Blaise and he did have a couple periods where one was free when the other was in class, though; maybe he could spend time in his common room with his house instead of the library. Social interactions, Harry decided, were harder than arithmancy.

 

* * *

 

On Halloween, the troll came.

"It's Muggleborn pandering, is what it is," Malfoy grumbled, hands shoved into his robe pockets. At his sides, Crabbe and Goyle nodded, obviously agreeing without paying any attention as they grabbed sweets by the handful. Madam Pince's one concession to the season was allowing charmed, non-sticky candies to appear in bowls around the library. She watched everyone who took one like a hawk, though, and had summarily ejected more than one student who had been a little too careless with putting their hands on her books after they had snuck in some regular candy.

"I thought Halloween was a pagan holiday?" Harry asked absently. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon certainly hated it, anyway.

"Oh, it is," said Malfoy grimly. "Samhain is, anyway. Halloween, or All Hallow's Eve, happened when Christians decided to appropriate another of our holidays, like how they took Yule over and decided to call it Christmas. Their Christ wasn't even born in December!"

"Calm down, Draco," Blaise said, glaring at his friend. "You're interfering with my studying."

Blaise studying happened so rarely that it was no wonder he sought to protect it. What he was studying had nothing to do with the actual curriculum, of course. It was about certain transfigurations that various celebrities used to make themselves appealing, as well as potions distilled from metamorphamagus blood that were used similarly, despite their illegality. Harry was still counting it as a step in the right direction. How any of his classmates could do anything but study obsessively was beyond him. They lived in a world where magic was real and they could do it! Not caring about that was crazy to him.

"The boundary between worlds and dimensions is thinnest on Samhain," Malfoy said, ignoring Blaise's suggestion. "It has its roots in Celtic history, Potter: our history. On Samhain, things happen. Feuds start and end, revolutions have their beginnings-- mmph!"

Blaise, who had been quietly gathering up candy during this speech, summarily stuffed it all in Malfoy's mouth at once. As Malfoy scowled and chewed, Blaise calmly turned his page.

"We've really got to be going down to dinner anyway," Harry said, amused. Malfoy's cheeks stuck out like those of the squirrels that were always taunting someone on Dudley's American television shows, and his lips were coated in sugar.

"If we must," Blaise said with a sigh. The five of them gathered their things and emerged into the third floor hallway to a crush of students, laughing and shooting spells at one another as they all headed to dinner. They hopped onto one of the moving staircases and held tightly as it moved to meet the second floor near Professor Flitwick's office, taking the last of the steps down. Once they reached the floor, Harry was shoved abruptly, prompting a loud hiss from Surana who was nestled around his neck. Crabbe and Goyle grabbed him, keeping him upright, as she poked her head up and stared balefully at the tall, red-headed boy in a Gryffindor scarf who had been knocked off his feet entirely at sat staring up at them with a scowl.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" the boy, Ron Weasley, said. He started gathering the books and papers that had slid out of his book bag when he had gone flying.

"Excuse you, Weasley, but _you_ are the one that bumped into _him_. _Harry Potter_." Malfoy was giving Weasley a colder look than Harry had ever seen him give before. It actually took Harry a long, absent-minded moment to place which Weasley it was. Even though they had Charms and Transfigurations together, Ron Weasley had never really spoken to Harry. He had never really spoken to anyone much, come to think of it. Harry had heard him snap a few times at Granger, one of the Gryffindor girls, and he always groaned loudly if he was paired with Longbottom, one of the Gryffindor boys, but besides that, he kept to himself. He didn't seem to like Longbottom and the last two of the boys, Finnegan and Thomas, were close friends.

He was turning bright red now and seemed poised to say something cross when Harry reached down to help him up. "Don't worry on it," he said, a little awkwardly. "No harm done, Weasley. Malfoy's just being a prat. The most you did was squish my snake, Surana, a bit. You all sorted?"

Weasley's eyes went wide. "A s-snake?"

Harry sighed. He had forgotten all about wizarding prejudice and snakes. He was used to Ravenclaws and Slytherins now, who as a whole didn't much care what his familiar was as long as she didn't have to be _their_ familiar.

"Yeah, she's harmless. The school made sure of it before they let her come as my familiar, and I confirmed it with Flitwick when I arrived on the first day. Please don't make a fuss."

Blaise shifted a little, pulling Harry back by his robe sleeve. "C'mon, Harry. Stop coddling the Weasley. I've heard they have spiced pumpkin-apple juice."

Harry let himself be pulled away. The Weasley boy, head down, rushed back off. Merlin knew where, since he hadn't followed them to the Great Hall and had actually looked to be headed toward the dungeons.

He felt bad for him. Weasley didn't really have many friends, and he seemed to have a hard time in class whenever Harry took note of him. It was a shame that there hadn't been another boy in Gryffindor that might have been his friend.

Going through the Great Hall doors unleashed a cacophony of noise onto Harry's ears. Even Whisper winced and grumbled, his soft, hissing complaints noticeable only to Harry's ear. Surana poked her head out once, let out what was more a snarl than a hiss, and slithered over Harry's shoulders to drape herself across Blaise, burying her head in his messy curls. Harry laughed a little at Blaise's bemusement and let her go; she would find him later. He took his place at the Ravenclaw table as the other boys went to Slytherin. He sat bracketed by Michael, who smelled so strongly of blood today that even Harry could smell it, and Padma, who was scribbling equations furiously on a piece of parchment.

"Arithmancy?" Harry asked her in an attempt to be friendlier.

Padma nodded. "I'd like to start taking it a year early if I can. Mandy and I are working on it together. It's critical to the study of alchemy."

"Really?" Harry had heard snippets about alchemy, but nothing concrete. Snakes were useful in it, most if it was considered grey magic rather than dark or light, and there was a lot of potions in it. There weren't many English alchemists anymore, though it had once been a popular profession even as late as the Restoration. "I've had trouble finding books about alchemy," he admitted.

Padma laughed, rolling up her paper and sticking it in her pocket. "I probably would as well, if I wasn't a Patil. My sister is in Gryffindor, and she wants nothing to do with our family business. We have the biggest alchemy supply shop in London, though most of us don't practice it. But all Pavarti cares about is boys and curling irons. I could lend you one of my family's primers if you like. I'd have to ask permission from my parents, but I'm sure they'd agree."

"That would be fantastic!" Harry grinned. Maybe socializing with his own house wouldn't be as hard as he thought.

The hall was full of bats, swooping back and forth over the tables, and was lit by Jack O'Lanterns instead of the regular candles. Each table had gigantic cauldrons of candy on them, filled to the brim, but as yet there was no food. Dumbledore, thankfully, didn't even try to make a speech. He just thunked his wand down once on the table and said grandly: "Let us feast!"

The food appeared on its gold platters instantly. Harry helped himself to some of it, talking with Padma and Mandy about alchemy in between people-watching. Blaise and Malfoy had their heads down together, muttering about something and casting frequent looks in Harry's direction. Ernie Macmillian, one of the Hufflepuffs, had somehow managed to get a pig's snout for a nose and made a fuss until Professor McGonagall, sighing, righted it. The Gryffindors were looking a little scanty; Ron Weasley and at least one of the first year girls was missing.

Harry was just picking up his fork to take another bite of his roasted carrots when Professor Quirrell, who hadn't been at the head table, burst through the doors. Conversation stuttered to a halt as Quirrell looked around himself blankly. His robes were rippling, his body shuddering beneath them like a wave, and his turban tipped precariously. "T-troll in the dungeons." His voice was weak, but still managed to echo through the silent room. "Thought-- you ought to know." He collapsed on the floor.

Everyone began shouting. Some of the students jumped to their feet. One of the first year Hufflepuffs burst into tears. Harry sat, thinking. He wasn't familiar with trolls, though he knew the standard varieties: mountain, cave, bridge. They turned to stone if touched by sunlight, so they preferred dark places. Tremendously stupid, but they didn't bother with humans for the most part. A troll would eat a human if it happened upon one, but they could be reasoned with. They were native to Great Britain, so why everyone was fussing like it was unheard of must have to do with the wards on Hogwarts, which should have prevented one from coming inside. Of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts classes often had creatures of various sorts as part of the curricula, so it wasn't unheard of to have a dark creature on the premises, really….

Harry's thoughts were broken when the bang and crack of purple firecrackers burst from the end of Dumbledore's wand.

"PREFECTS!" he shouted. "Please, gather your houses and return to your dormitories. Be calm, but quick. Your Head of House will inform you when it is safe to leave."

Clearwater and Grant began ushering people together. Harry pulled away, crossing the room to Blaise and Draco without a word. He had to skirt Quirrell's prone body where it was barely breathing on the Great Hall floor.

"You are _not_ going to your dormitory," he said flatly. They had barely begun to gather their things. "The Slytherin dormitories are in the dungeons."

Malfoy's eyes were wide. "I can't believe Dumbledore! Sending us down to--"

"Potter, are you too good to stay with your own house?"

Snape, of course. Harry twisted around to look at him.

"Great bloody bat, I should bite him," he heard over his shoulder, the familiar tone of Surana's soft voice. Blaise's hand caught around Harry's wrist, out of sight of Professor Snape. He began subtly pulling Harry closer to him and away from his teacher.

"Professor Snape, can they come to Ravenclaw?" Harry asked urgently. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were already leaving, and across the room, Clearwater was tapping her foot impatiently. "They can't go to the dungeons if the troll is there."

"Ah, information that I obviously didn't have before you deigned to tell me," Snape mocked. "We were, in fact, already going to send my house to stay with yours until the danger had passed, but if the great Potter tells us to do it, of course it must be so."

It really seemed like the best course of action to stay polite, so Harry swallowed his anger and began to say, "Thank you, sir" when he was cut off by Blaise tugging him away more obviously. He was blatantly glaring at Snape, who in turn looked at him archly, one eyebrow raised.

"A problem, Mr. Zabini?" Snape asked silkily.

"Not one that couldn't be fixed by my mother's lawyers and an accusation of professional misconduct," Blaise suggested. Surana began to twine her way across Blaise's arm to Harry's, using Blaise's hand on Harry's wrist as a bridge. She stared at Snape the entire time, grumbling.

"Slippery nassssty professor. Worsssse than an owl!"

Snape reeled back. "Potter, why do you have a sn--"

"We really have to get going, Professor," Clearwater said. She had come across the room to stand beside them, her body tense. Grant was ushering the Slytherins to join the Ravenclaws as they headed out the door. "Do you need the boys any longer?"

"No, take them!" Snape snapped.

Harry linked his hand to Blaise's absently. Blaise's palm was warm, soft against Harry's skin. "Thank you, sir," Harry managed to get out. Then he remembered. "I saw Ron Weasley headed toward the dungeons earlier. I'm not sure what he was doing, but he wasn't at the feast."

Snape didn't acknowledge Harry's words, but must have heard him, so it would have to be enough. Harry, Blaise, and the rest of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws followed Clearwater and Grant out of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: my next semester of grad classes starts this Wednesday, so I might need to change the update day eventually, but hopefully it will be able to remain the same.
> 
> I'm going to be adding some new tags soon, as the plot comes together in my head, so look forward to that as a hint of what's to come. I think there's very little at this point that I'll be taking from book one beyond what I've already taken-- the only upcoming plot point from Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone that's relevant is the invisibility cloak. I do have a few kinks to iron out first, though, as we proceed, regarding Voldemort's ascension, so next chapter will be a bit more work than the previous. Ah, just in time for the new semester, too! :)


	6. [Year One] Holidays, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations begin for a winter holiday at the Malfoys.

The next morning, breakfast was a solemn thing. Dumbledore wasn't in his normal place at the head table, and neither were Quirrell, Snape, or McGonagall. Harry was relieved to see that Ron Weasley was alive and apparently well at the Gryffindor table, though he was seated next to the Granger girl. Since he normally avoided her like the plague, it was a touch odd. They were chatting, heads close together, and exchanging what seemed to be a stilted conversation.

Having Slytherins in Ravenclaw dorms last night had been an interesting experience. Malfoy had been all swagger and claim, sprawling in a royal blue armchair on one of the upper floors of the common room and with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. The Ravenclaws had largely ignored this display, and begun a productive night of study and gossip about trolls. Quite unintentionally, Harry ended up dragging Blaise to sit beside him on one of the higher levels of the tower, thinking hard about how a troll would have come to be in Hogwarts. The wards should have prevented it. The only logical conclusion was that one of the teachers, who were able to re-key the wards for classes, had let it in. He just wasn't sure why. There was no motive or sense to it.

Seeing that Harry was non-communicative at the moment, Blaise had tugged his headphones over his head and, side-by-side, they sat for most of the evening, Blaise listening to music and Harry writing furiously page after page of notes and questions. Flitwick stopped by late in the night. None of the students had gone to bed. They were studying (Ravenclaws) or playing exploding snap (Slytherins) in the common areas, more for comfort and companionship than because they weren't tired. When the door opened, revealing their diminutive Head of House, Clearwater, Grant, and the rest of the Slytherin and Ravenclaw prefects rushed over to meet him. They spoke in hushed whispers for a few moments before Flitwick stepped onto the wooden crate they kept in the corner for such occasions.

"Students of Ravenclaw and Slytherin!" he said, in his gruff, tinny little voice. "The castle has been declared clear of all troll presence. Two students were caught in the bathrooms in the dungeons, but both were retrieved safely and are unharmed. However, we would like everyone to remain where they are until morning so we can perform the last checks through the castle and strengthen our wards. Your prefects will help you settle in for the evening. Thank you all for remaining so calm! Any evening classes and classes tomorrow are all canceled. Please enjoy the rest of your evening!"

He jumped off the crate, then continued his discussion with the prefects. Gradually, everyone began to file off to their rooms. A number of beds were conjured in the various years' bedrooms for their Slytherin guests. The first years from both houses bunked together; Harry, Blaise, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle sat in a ring of beds, talking about the Malfoy family tradition of holding vigil on Halloween for their dead ancestors. They were, unfortunately, keeping the other first years up, and only stopped when Terry finally threw a pillow at their heads and told them to "shut it or go sleep in the girls' dorm."

Looking over the assembled school the next morning, Harry decided that it had been the most eventful Halloween he'd had yet. Though… perhaps not really. It was strange that such a thing as a troll gaining access to Hogwarts, of all things, happened on the anniversary of his parents' and Voldemort's deaths.

 

* * *

 

Surana slithered over the cold stone floor of the Ravenclaw dormitory, her green-grey body moving lithely over the frigid blocks. She curled her way up the posts of Harry's bed, sneaking over his legs to curl about his neck, tongue tickling his ear.

Laughing, he shoved her away, closing his book with a soft thump. His curtains were drawn tight, and the rest of the first year boys were asleep, enjoying their last few hours before they had to rush about, packing for winter hols. The rest of the year til the holiday had passed more or less uneventfully, after the troll. Granger and Weasley were also walking around with their heads together, and Padma swore that her sister Pavarti had caught them with their hands linked at least once. Besides that, the professors were acting odd. That was where Surana had been, in truth-- Harry had sent her to spy on them, slithering her way into their private meetings and bedchambers so that he might be able to gain some knowledge on who had let the troll in. The one person that the two of them were fairly certain it wasn't was Snape. This was much to Harry's disappointment, considering Snape's frequent poor treatment of him. Snape had been clearly tied up following Harry's hint about Weasley-- and apparently, Granger, from what Harry understood-- being in the girls' loo in the dungeon. Snape had been injured by the troll and spent the entire night in the infirmary wing. He had been sedated and placed in a bed beside the gibbering Quirrell. That was assuming that Quirrell wasn't the one that had let the troll in and used the distraction to do… something. What that something was, Harry had absolutely no idea.

"Dumbledore is treating Quirrell poorly, Sssspeaker," Surana said, voice quiet in his ear as she reported. "Very polite, but cutssss him out of the staff meeting this morning. Apparently, something went missing on Samhain. A mirror, he said."

"Hmm." Harry wasn't sure what to do with the information, but information for its own sake had to be work something. Otherwise, what good was Ravenclaw, really?

He pulled his bed curtains aside and dressed in distraction, packing his pajamas into his trunk. He was headed first with Blaise to meet Madam Zabini, when they would then head to the Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. After the Malfoys' Yule party, they would go to the Zabini's house in Italy to ring in the New Year.

He had packed everything that he could think of. His books were gathered from everywhere he had stashed them and tucked them neatly into the trunk's shelving. The miniature garden that he had cultivated so far in Herbology was put under a stasis charm to keep it safe while he travelled, and all of his potion samples had been neatly bottled, labeled, and stored. He had his journals full of notes on his subjects and the private study in arithmancy that he was doing with Mandy and Padma. He was even looking forward to leaving Hogwarts for a bit-- or he had been, but suddenly, he didn't want to go. He was… happy here, at Hogwarts. He couldn't remember ever feeling happy like this before.

There was a mutter from Michael's bed and a rustle before one pale arm landed out of the bed, peeking out of the curtains. Harry's eyes narrowed. The other boy's arm was littered with scars, some of which bracketed a strange rune on his wrist, which was something like a trident with an eye. Quietly, Harry retrieved a journal and made a quick sketch of the rune for his notes. He was going to get to the bottom of why Michael always smelled of blood if it killed him.

Suddenly, Terry's blue curtains were pushed aside and Terry bounced out of his bed, muttering curse words under his breath as he began to frantically grab things from under his bed, the top of the canopy, the top of the bedpost, and beneath his mattress.

"Damn, damn, damn-- shit!" The other boy had banged his head against the bed frame and reeled back, blinking with one hand clasped to his face.

"You're going to wake up--" Harry stopped talking, since Anthony was already pulling his curtains aside. He stretched, his face composed even just after waking up. Michael's arm disappeared inside his curtain again, stealing the scars, marks, and rune from view again.

"Oh, shut it, Harry," Terry snapped. "You're already packed, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. "'Course. Last night. D'you need help?"

"Yes, you idiot! We only have an hour to get breakfast and leave, and I didn't pack anything."

"That's really only your own fault," Anthony pointed out. He pulled his shirt over his head. He had a broad chest and shoulders, but then, he was a year older than the rest of them. He would probably make an excellent Keeper for the Quidditch team one day, Harry thought, before he reddened and averted his eyes.

Harry grabbed Terry's things from around the room and piled them on the other boy's bed. Rather than folding or sorting anything, Terry just dumped everything directly into his trunk. Harry resisted the urge to shudder. Aunt Petunia would have been wearing an expression of extreme horror, he was sure. One did not simply refuse to fold and sort; it wasn't proper.

He wondered what she was doing for the holidays. Spoiling Dudley rotten, no doubt, and sometime around now or maybe soon yet, Uncle Vernon would be muttering something pleased about the lack of Harry's presence for the first time in ten years, and what a good thing it was that Stonewall let students stay over for the holidays when their families didn't want them.

"Right then. I think I've got everything settled," Terry said, looking around the room authoritatively. "Thanks, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "Don't mention it." He pulled his school bag over his head and locked his trunk. The house elves would get it later and put it on the train for him.

The other boys were ready now, so they headed out into the common areas. They went down a couple flights of stairs, past the bookcases and armchairs that filled each level of the common room. The girls were already on their way out. The second they met up, Mandy and Padma stole Harry, bracketing him between their arms.

"Did you have the chance to check that arithmetic on the summoning charm yet?" Mandy asked. She was taller than Harry by a good three inches, an ash blonde with a broad Northern accent.

Harry nodded. "Yes, both sides have to equal three while using invisible numbers, so…."

Everyone in the Great Hall was in a rush. The tables were covered in foods that could be either easily scarfed down or carried away. Many of the students were still missing, no doubt gathering their things, and a few students stopped by only to take three times their weight in food back to the dorms for the others. After eating, everyone rushed down to the horseless carriages, which took them to the trains. Harry sat with Blaise, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in both the carriages and the train. Blaise, he, and Malfoy would all be picked up by Blaise's mum, but Crabbe and Goyle would go back to their families until the Yule party.

The carriage rattled over the dirt road. Blaise was sleeping, headphones on, head on Harry's shoulder. Crabbe and Goyle were still eating, and Malfoy was trying to compose a letter. The carriage slowed, then stopped; Harry could hear the still of phantom hoofbeats. He nudged Blaise, who arose sleepily and, leaning heavily on Harry, managed to join the line for the train. They showed their tickets and found a compartment. Harry nodded to the other Ravenclaws as they passed, including Mandy and Padma; the girls gave the Slytherins wary looks and nodded discreetly back.

Sometimes, being with the Slytherins felt kind of like being in a gang. Everyone was a little afraid of them, and Harry by extension. It was ridiculous, but was also a welcome change. Probably even Dudley would be afraid of the Slytherins, if he had the slightest idea who they were.

Harry lifted his chin and straightened his spine, arm around Blaise's shoulder. That was the best thing about hanging about with Slytherins. No one would mess them. No one sane, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Madam Zabini was the most beautiful woman that Harry had ever seen. She had chocolate brown skin and a mass of dark brown curls that were held back from her face with a filmy scarf. She wore tailored green dress robes made of the same material, covered with a thick forest green wool cloak, and pair of smart leather boots. She stood out from the Muggles, and even from the other wizards, a still, serene presence in the midst of the suited masses.

She smiled when she saw them, drawing Blaise from Harry's side and into her arms. "Boys," she greeted, once she released him. "How are you all?" She had an accent, mellow like honey over the senses.

"Very well, Madam Zabini, and yourself?" Malfoy asked. Harry mumbled something similar, ducking his head.

She laughed. "Quite well, thank you, Draco. Your mother had been waiting your arrival most impatiently at the manor." Her eyes flashed sharply to Harry. "Blaise, make the appropriate introductions, if you would."

Blaise straightened with a little effort, yawning a little as he said, "Harry, my mother, Madam Louisa Zabini. Mother, Lord Harry James Potter, Earl of Griffon's Nest." He kicked Harry, who glared at him, but made the correct bow, if just a touch deeper than precisely necessary for Madam Zabini's station. Spending time with Slytherins led to the unfortunate habit of developing high society manners, even when doing so took away from studying time.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Madam Zabini," Harry said, flushing. He was trying, frantically, to remember the Dursleys ever actually introducing him to a grown up instead of hiding him away. He didn't think he'd ever even met Piers Polkiss' parents.

"You as well, Harry," she said. Her voice was soft, almost gentle, and she curtseyed to him in the middle of King's Cross station. The hem of her robes touched the floor, forming a puddle of green before they swept smoothly up again. "I may call you Harry? You are close to my son, after all."

"Of course, Madam Zabini."

"Then you must call me Louisa," she said. She looked over the three boys-- Crabbe and Goyle had gone immediately to their own parents with nary a word-- and nodded approvingly. "All right," she said. "Let's head to Malfoy Manor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all your comments, subscriptions, kudos, and other support! We have one part left for Harry's first year at Hogwarts, unless the next part ends up being far longer than I think it will be. It should be an interesting Yule party, considering the kind of guest list the Malfoys entertain. It will probably take me two weeks to get it out, since it's a little complicated. After that, there will be a hiatus as I prepare for Chamber of Secrets, with posting resuming on Valentine's Day-- appropriate for Chamber of Secrets, isn't it?
> 
> "Brocklehurst" has its origins in Lancashire, so for Mandy's accent, feel free to hear a female version of the Ninth Doctor.


	7. [Year One] Holidays, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Malfoy having a party must be in want of an intrigue.

Snow was falling outside the Malfoy Manor, over the French-style garden that spiraled around the manor like the spokes of the wheel. Sitting at his window in the guest bedroom that would be his for the duration of his visit, Harry watched it coming down. Surana was around his left arm and up his shoulder; under his jumper, Whisper was curled around his right, silent as ever, but twisted in a much tinier, mirror image of Surana.

The rosebushes, dormant for the year, were covered in snow, as were the garden beds and benches. It was accumulating rapidly, sweeping over the manor. Malfoy said that his parents enchanted the manor grounds every year to make sure there was a perfect, white Yule. Hogwarts let out in just barely enough time for the more traditional students to observe Yule, and the winter hols went from around December 20th to January 3rd, with the Hogwarts Express coming for students running on the 2nd. Harry liked the facts of it, the deadlines and ritual that still worked with the natural rhythms of the seasons. It had the same kind of logic that worked in some of his favorite novels, though he was still a little disappointed that wizarding and Muggle months were still called the same thing, and didn't have some kind of interesting name, like "Ice Blood Moon" for December or something.

There was a knock on the door before Malfoy opened it and slipped through. He was dressed in more elaborate robes than normal, expensive-looking the way that the men and women headed into Downing Street on the telly sometimes were expensive-looking.

"The party starts in a couple minutes, Harry. You found the robes I laid out for you?"

Harry laughed. Malfoy was practically vibrating with nerves, and scowled at the sound. "Yes, Malfoy, I found the robes."

"Well, I wouldn't know since you're clearly not wearing them, would I? And call me Draco, won't you. We've been friends for months now."

Harry blinked a bit; he had known they were… friendly, but he hadn't really considered them friends. He was still a little shocked at times that Blaise was his friend. No one had liked Dudley Dursley's hated bookish cousin, after all, except librarians and teachers. After a moment, he smiled warmly. "All right, Draco."

They had been at the Malfoys' for a day, and the party was tonight; Harry and the Zabinis would stay over tonight and head to Italy tomorrow afternoon for the rest of break, where they would be from just before Christmas and into the new year.

Harry stood from his seat at the window and walked over to the bed. The _subfusc_ that was part of Harry's Hogwarts uniform-- a pair of black trousers and a white button-down-- was apparently not formal enough for the party, so Harry laid Surana on the bed and shrugged out of his shirt and jumper, pulling on the blue tunic that Draco had laid out with the robe. Draco, shifting impatiently in the doorway, suddenly stilled but for his fingers, which beat a restless tattoo against the side table near the door.

Harry didn't feel like changing his trousers and they were good enough for the party anyway, so he picked up the robe. Silently, Draco stepped forward to help him with the laces, which tied around each wrist, and the elaborate blue cord that wrapped twice around his waist and tied at the side. He looked troubled.

"Harry…," he said, giving the cord one last tug, "You're awfully thin."

Harry blinked at him once, then shrugged. "I suppose so. So what?"

Draco shook his head. "Nothing, I guess."

He still looked bothered, though. Harry watched him for a moment before deciding that something else must be the matter. Maybe he was worried about the party. Either way, it was unlikely to be something that Harry could help with at the moment, besides getting ready as quickly as was possible.

He glanced in the mirror at the wardrobe, trying to figure out whether to deal with his hair. "Lookin' sharp, luv," his reflection told him. It had a decided East London accent, so thick it was almost illegible. "Best to do summat with that hair, though, yeah?"

Harry shook his head. As ever, it was disconcerting when his reflection wouldn't move with him. "I can't do much. My uncle won't let it grow longer and it refuses to be shorter."

"Don't talk to the mirror, Harry, especially one as uncouth as this one," Draco instructed. "We'll worry about your hair another time. I shall ask Mother for her spells. We have to _go_."

He tugged Harry out of the room. Harry, stumbling over his own feet, heard the mirror call after them, "Laters!" before his reflection left the mirror and it couldn't speak any longer.

They ran through the wide halls of the bedroom wing of the manor, past large windows that were frosted over with ice. Outside, a pair of snow-covered bugbears were flinging snow-covered rocks at each other and giggling so loudly that Harry could hear them inside. He nearly tripped to try to get a better look at them, but Draco just pulled him along until they reached the door to the ballroom, where they stopped. Draco straightened both their robes, muttered something about Harry's hair again, and then opened the door.

Candles floated mid-air throughout the ballroom, a string of warm yellow, red, and green flames. Tiny fairies, surrounded by a silver or gold glow, flitted about far overhead, their wings leaving a shimmering dust over the assembly. They tossed mistletoe leaves back and forth, their tinkling laughter almost too quiet to be heard over the clink of wine glasses and the soaring classical music from the band in the back corner. Harry nearly stopped, but Draco was already sweeping through the ballroom, nodding and greeting people all the while. He shook hands, made courtly bows, and forced Harry to do the same. It took them a full fifteen minutes to reach the group of boys standing sullenly near a table close to the band. Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, and the other Slytherin boy from first year, Theodore Nott, were all looking balefully out at the adults.

"Where are the girls?" Draco asked once they arrived, steering Harry to the table side and parking him there.

"Not here yet," Goyle grunted.

"Who's coming?" Harry asked, looking through the room. There were only seven or eight families there so far, for all that it seemed like a lot of people.

"All of our families, of course," Draco said, "and the Parkinsons, the Corners, the Lovegoods, Mr. Ollivander and his grandson, Professors Snape and Quirrell…."

"Hm." Harry glanced around the room, which was filling fast. There was a constant POP from guests apparating outside, being lead into the room by a stream of house elves and greeted by the graceful blonde Narcissa Malfoy, who wore shimmering blue robes that made her look like the Ice Queen. It took a moment before he spotted who he was looking for: the quivering purple turban of Professor Quirrell. He was deep in discussion with Mr. Malfoy. His back was absolutely straight and he was standing tall, chin up, with more confidence than Harry had ever seen him display before. His expression was most unpleasant before a couple passed between him and Harry, cutting him off from view.

As the families began to arrive, their children split off and joined the Slytherin group and Harry in the back. Michael Corner, obviously displeased to be there, had snagged a glass of wine from someone and was chugging it at a rapid rate. His dress robes didn't quite cover a scar on his collarbone. Talkative Pansy Parkinson was discussing with the other Patil sister, Pavarti, something about hair washes , while Padma pulled out a book and revising her notes.

"What is _that_?" Blaise said quietly, nudging Harry with his shoulder. Harry twisted around in his seat; Quirrell had something in his hand, a kind of shimmering red stone that he showed Mr. Malfoy briefly before tucking it away.

"I don't know," Harry said, also quiet, "but I wonder if it's whatever he stole on Halloween."

"He _stole_ something?! Quirrell?!"

Harry shrugged, wondering how much he should say. "I don't have proof. Much proof, besides some… overheard conversations, I suppose? But something went missing on Samhain, and only a teacher could have lowered the wards to let the troll in."

Blaise frowned. "Tell me everything, Harry, and don't leave anything out, otherwise I'm going to be cross. What do you know?"

Harry checked around to make sure no one was listening in, then explained everything. As the music from the band soared over their heads and the crowd gossiped and danced, Harry explained Parseltongue, and Dumbledore's dislike of Quirrell, and how a mirror had gone missing.

"But a mirror and a stone aren't exactly the same thing."

"But mirrors are… magical, more so than other objects. I've read a bit about them-- very popular devices in novels, aren't they? They reveal our true intentions. It's why it's so easy to get wizarding mirrors to talk. It's possible that the mirror that I'm guessing Quirrell stole was just a cover for a deeper secret, which could only be revealed for the right person. A secret like that stone. I don't-- ugh!"

Someone had bumped into him: a tiny little blonde girl with gigantic blue eyes and radish earrings. "Oh my!" she said. She had a very breathy, dreamy voice. "I'm terribly sorry. It's probably for the best, you know. You never know who's listening in, and you looked awfully secretive over here."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. Harry looked up, past the girl, and saw Snape, looming nearby with an interested expression. When he saw Harry looking, he just raised his eyebrow and continued to stare.

"You should watch where you're--"

"--It's all right," Harry broke in. "I'm Harry. Have we met? You don't look familiar."

The girl smiled. "Oh, I will one day soon, I suppose, Harry Potter. My name is Luna Lovegood. I'm only ten, you know. I won't be in Hogwarts yet."

She was a bit… strange, Harry had to admit. He would almost say that she had known Snape was listening in on his and Blaise's conversation.

"Lovegood?" Blaise raised his brows, smirking. "That explains a lot. How's your father's magazine these days?"

Luna smiled widely. "Oh, lovely! Just lovely. We've been in Albania, you know, observing the population of Gragsnarks in a forest there. They are finally returning to the area, after eleven years absence. There's some signs that a dark presence left recently, you know. Quite a flux in dark magic."

Harry frowned. "I feel like I've heard that phrase before. I…." He tried to remember, but it eluded him for several moments before he was able to place it-- Percy Weasley had mentioned that there had been a flux in dark magic at Gringotts shortly before the term started; Harry had heard there was a break in that occurred maybe a week after he had gone to Diagon Alley to pick up his books.

 "Didn't Professor Quirrell return to teaching from some field work in Albania?" Blaise shot Harry a significant look.

 "Everything is connected," said Luna sagely. "It's a truth that will never become untrue. Oh, my father is calling. I'll see you next September." She waved, spinning around and darting off.

Harry and Blaise exchanged a look. Harry considered all that he had learned and put it on the back burner for further consideration and perhaps some notes and graphs when he had time of this. He was just about ready to make a study of it, which did not bode well for Professor Quirrell's plans.

 

* * *

 

The party went far into the night. They opened gifts the next morning, shortly before the Zabinis and Harry were to go to Italy. Harry sat awkwardly beside Blaise at the house while Lady Malfoy doled out presents. Blaise was still half-asleep, his head buried into the purple couch arm and a fringed pillow hugged to his chest as if he was a toddler. His mother'd had to drag him out of his room by his ear, just barely dressed and his robes askew.

"Ah, and this one for you, Harry," Lady Malfoy said, passing him a silver-wrapped present with a glittering green ribbon. Blinking, Harry took it.

"For me?" he whispered, staring at the present. He shook his head and began to open it.

Harry had no less than fifteen presents from all of his friends, the Malfoys, and Madam Zabini combined, not including a mystery gift giver who had given him an Invisibility Cloak that apparently belonged to his father. Despite this, Blaise's gift had to be his favorite: a miniature record-player just like the one Blaise was always listening to, with little hand-sized records in a range of wizarding and Muggle music.

"So you can have something in common with your Muggle friends over summer break," explained Blaise, who had been forced into a Santa hat by Draco. "It's called a Sing-Spinner." Harry hadn't the heart to tell Blaise that he didn't have any Muggle friends, so having Muggle music in common with them wouldn't much matter.

The rest of the day, and indeed the rest of the holiday, passed very quickly. Harry and the Zabinis headed to the manor's Hearth Room, where there was a giant fireplace and a number of attractive pots and vases. Lady Malfoy and Madam Zabini held tight to one another's hands, talking rapidly about things that they somehow hadn't managed to yet discuss. Lord Malfoy had disappeared into his study at some point and didn't appear in the mood to see them off, which hadn't surprised Madam Zabini or the Malfoys one bit.

Draco, similarly to his mother, was talking to Blaise in a rapidfire dialogue about something to do with Quidditch. Harry was just about ready to pat down his pockets to find something to read while he waited for all the goodbyes to end when Draco turned to him, a stern look on his face.

"Madam Zabini has some of the finest owls on the Continent, so you must write over vacation. I'll talk to Mother about those spells I mentioned, and if I don't hear from you in two days I'll send my own owl after you." He pulled one of the pots off the mantle and shoved it into Harry's hands. "I won't miss either of you at all," he added. Madam Zabini, smothering a laugh, kissed Lady Malfoy twice on each cheek and took a pinch of Floo powder from the pot in Harry's hands.

"The Lavender House, Magnolia District, Positano, Italy," she said, and tossed the powder into the flames. They shot up, turning a pale purple, and she stepped inside them, disappearing from view almost immediately.

Harry went next, then Blaise. The fire and smoke whirled around them, bright and brilliant, until the landing, when Harry nearly fell out of the wide, white fireplace in Italy and onto his knees.

Blaise grinned, gesturing around them. "Welcome to the Lavender House."

The Lavender House in Positano was built of soft greyish-cream stones and strung with banners and flags. It had a little courtyard full of lavender and flowering trees, where there was a bench and a number of elaborate birdhouses. The bedrooms were large and white, with bright-colored linens and numerous potted plants that Surana took to sleeping in on sunny days, basking in the warmth. There were the standard floating tea services, self-warming tea pots, and soft glowing lights that Harry was coming to associate with wizarding houses, and a single house elf, a female named Sully, who was dressed in a filmy purple curtain and had a number of earrings through her bat-like ears.

For the entire holiday, they took tea in the in the courtyard every morning and afternoon before spending lazy days running around the town and down to the seaside. Harry had only been to the sea once with the Dursleys, and it was nothing like this-- bleak and grey, in comparison to the beautiful blue-green of Positano's sea. Blaise had a moped that he used to drive them to the Muggle and wizarding _en plein air_ markets nearby, where they bought silver bead bracelets and stared at moving wooden carvings of cats, which moved and purred and hissed like the real thing. And every day, Madam Zabini and Harry took care of the owls in their private owlery. The only dark point of the trip was when on Christmas day, a few days after Yule, Harry received a couple pence from the Dursleys by owl in lieu of a Christmas gift, which was hopefully Aunt Petunia's doing and hadn't created an awkward situation with Uncle Vernon. That had been hard to explain to the Zabinis, who had stared at the coin like it held the secrets of the universe.

Then, of course, they had to go back to England and Hogwarts and snow. Harry never thought he would be sad to go back to Hogwarts, but as he saw the castle approaching from the carriage window, he felt a sense of disappointment that the holidays were really at an end.

It would be more classes, then exams, and then Harry would have to go back to the Dursleys in the summer. And that was the real tragedy, wasn't it? It was only January, and he was already dreading it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up out later than I wanted, didn't it? To revise the plans I laid out last chapter, I have one more chapter for first year to post, hopefully next Sunday if I can manage to get back on track despite classes. Then there will be a *two-week* hiatus while I prepare for Chamber of Secrets, with posting resuming on the 28th.
> 
> When I picture Luna Lovegood, I don't picture Evanna Lynch, though she's lovely. I picture Hannah Murray, who plays Cassie on Skins.


	8. [Year One] Blood Tells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things come together, but Harry is worried that everything is coming apart.

After the winter holidays, classes became much harder. The large gaps of time between classes each day were suddenly useful for studying the actual curriculum instead of Harry's self-directed studies, and even the more slothful of students-- to wit, Blaise and Ron Weasley-- were spied with books in their hands on more than one occasion. Draco developed a plan for end-of-year exams that was meticulously outlined in color-coded inks and bullet-pointed for clarity. He was, apparently, somewhat worried that Goyle was going to fail the year and was thus forcing his minions to complete the course of study as well. Of course, all of this studying did not preclude the occurrence of snow fights, more than one of which was waged between Gryffindor and Slytherin with casualties on all sides. Poor Neville Longbottom had actually been carted to see Madam Pomfrey, the medi-witch, with his eye blackened.

Harry was aware that Quidditch was also happening around this time, but only dimly. Though the entire school went out to support their house teams, Harry often buried himself in the library during these occurrences, trying to research mirrors, stones, and Gragsnarks, which unfortunately didn't seem to exist. The Stone had been the easiest thing to figure out: the most famous magical stone in history was the Philosopher's Stone, described as being red and flickering like it had a flame held captive at its core. Only one known in existence, made by one Nicolas Flamel, a man even Muggles had heard of and apparently a close friend of Albus Dumbledore. Harry suspected that the Stone was linked to the break in at Gringotts earlier in the year as well.

Harry just wasn't sure why. Why had Quirrell stolen the Philosopher's Stone from Dumbledore? Why was he talking with Lucius Malfoy? Why was Snape so interested in all the proceedings in general? His thoughts kept circling back to the one idea: Voldemort.

Harry knew a lot about Voldemort. Voldemort had killed his parents, scarred his forehead, and made everyone look at him askance, hushed whispers on their lips about how very much like his parents he was, really, and how sad, but how thankful they all were…. He was beginning to think he didn't know quite _enough_ , however. He had no proof that Voldemort was part of all this and couldn't go to an adult without proof. Dumbledore had to know anyway, judging by what Surana had spied, but why wasn't he doing anything? Was he just watching Quirrell instead of acting because he didn't have any proof either?

It was at this point in his spiraling, unhappy thoughts that Harry was usually dragged to the Night Room with Blaise and the other boys to read and play wizarding chess, or forced onto a couch in the common room by Mandy and Padma, who were determined to take arithmancy a year early despite the increased work load this year. They were also brushing up on ancient runes when they had spare time; Harry was ever watchful for a rune like the one he had glimpsed on Michael's arm, but there were thousands of runes and he wasn't getting much of anywhere with it.

This time, Harry was in the middle of a pile of books on the history of Voldemort's rise to power when Draco came into view, looked at him for a moment, then gestured to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry squeaked and Surana hissed when the other boys took him, one by each arm, and lifted him. They began walking out of the library, Draco explaining, "It's the last match before exams, Harry. You have to support Slytherin. Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin today, and though Hufflepuff hasn't won a single match, if Slytherin wins, we're a shoe-in for the Cup. All that's left is Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor after exams, and we've already beaten both of them. You really must convince your house to form a better Quidditch team, though they'll have second place, at least." Harry barely followed that explanation of the Quidditch rankings, since he wasn't much up with sports.

"Madam Pince will have my head, leaving all those books out," Harry whined. Surana reared up, causing Crabbe and Goyle to flail back and drop him. Harry grunted when he hit the floor, head ringing.

"Idiots!" Draco berated. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"I'm sure my head will eventually stop spinning. I'm probably not brain-damaged."

"Well, that's up for debate." Draco smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll just have to suffer through it. Let's go, then. I'll even let you bring a book."

Harry snorted. Draco would be hard-pressed to _keep_ him from bringing a book, unless he was willing to do a full-body search and risk Surana and Whisper's wrath. Grudgingly, he followed Draco and the other two boys to the Quidditch pitch. Blaise had secured them a bench by sprawling out on it with his headphones on, eyes closed and his Sing-Spinner nestled into his breastbone. Harry nudged him over and sat down, pulling out his book almost immediately. The crowds were loud, muttering and shouting back and forth beneath the swoop of the commenter's running, pre-game commentary. The commenter, Lee Jordan, was clearly rooting for Hufflepuff, meticulously disparaging every member of the Slytherin team on every subject from team captain Marcus Flint's love life to one of the Chaser's sister's new marriage. His knowledge of the team was actually pretty impressive, if with a cruel bent.

"Harry!" Harry looked up; the voice belonged to Mandy, who was dragging the other first year Ravenclaws over to them. They were all wearing green.

"You're supporting Slytherin?" he asked, watching with amusement as Padma elbowed Draco to the side to plop down next to Harry.

"'Course!" Terry said grandiosely. "We like to support the winning team, and the Puffs are going down."

"And we knew you would be supporting them, of course," Anthony said, smiling. Harry flushed.

Blaise sat up a bit to make more room for the Ravenclaws. He was frowning as he slid his headphones over his ears to rest on his shoulders, but was distracted by talking with Michael Corner about some obscure band that was apparently local to Michael's home in Wales. Harry gave up his book as hopeless. He would have to watch the match properly; everyone was just talking too much. The players were zooming into the pitch and the cheers rose in crescendo as the match began. One of the girls in the front row looked like she was about ready to take her robes off and fling her undergarments at the Hufflepuff seeker. It was as bad as Uncle Vernon watching football on the telly when it was Arsenal vs. Manchester United, though at least Aunt Petunia normally made him run down to the pub.

Eventually, the match did end and Slytherin did win. Draco was hoarse from yelling and reeled between Crabbe and Goyle, swaying loopily from exhaustion. "We won! We've got the Quidditch Cup and we've probably got the House Cup and the seventh years are going to sneak us butterbeer, I know it."

Harry barely resisted sniggering. They spilled out from the pitch and onto the grounds, everyone shouting and cheering except the sullen Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. (Besides Harry's year, most of the Ravenclaws were ambivalent on who won, and Gryffindor would support any other team before they supported Slytherin.)

They had to split up once they arrived back inside the castle, the Slytherins heading into their common room for the party. Harry walked beside Anthony, chatting about physics; Anthony's grandfather had apparently been a physicist in Germany during the Second World War, and had snuck his grandmum out of the country to escape Hitler. It was tremendously fascinating. Overall, despite the presence of Quidditch, Harry would deem the evening a grand success.

Back in the common room, they decided on a wizarding chess tournament before bed. Harry wasn't good at wizarding chess, but had gamely agreed to play in an effort to socialize with his own house mates more. He lost early on, and the final match ended up being between Anthony and Morag.

While they spewed good-natured insults at one another, Harry idly looked through his books, wondering just what he was missing about Quirrell, Voldemort, and Dumbledore. It had to be something obvious, but he was operating with half the information.

 _Fact,_ he wrote in his notes. _Quirrell has the Philosopher's Stone. Fact, he showed it to Lucius Malfoy, a known supporter of the Dark Lord. Fact, Dumbledore is suspicious of Quirrell but does nothing. Suspicion, Quirrell is working for Voldemort. Suspicion, Quirrell is possessed by Voldemort? That dark presence in the woods in Albania that Luna was talking about, and Quirrell was there as well. Suspicion, eventually, Quirrell will try to kill me for Voldemort. I make Voldemort look weak and provide a rallying point for his opposition. I have to die to cement his return. Suspicion, Voldemort will be back within one or two years, depending on how the Philosopher's Stone is used to help him, and will kill me then if he hasn't already._

Harry tapped his quill against his lips, reading what he had written. He felt sick all of a sudden. Ever since he had come to the wizarding world, there had been whispers and mindless adoration, which he tried to ignore as much as possible. There hadn't been danger like this, though. The most danger he had been in so far had been from the troll, and he hadn't even been faced with that directly.

 _Conclusion,_ he wrote. _I need to stop trying to find proof. Dumbledore already knows, and they say he has the ear of the Minister of Magic. That isn't my place. My place is to be ready to fight off the people who might be trying to kill me._

He wondered if he was being melodramatic or silly. Who would really want Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley's tosspot cousin, to die? But there was no harm in being prepared.

 

* * *

 

Harry spent the next few weeks mostly on school work, in between worrying about Voldemort and worrying about having to go back home to Surrey. He wasn't even much able to "prepare," since worrying about having to prepare was practically paralysing him. He barely slept many nights, turning it over and over in his head until Blaise had forcibly ordered him to sleep more than once, snarking, "It's really great, Harry. You must try it."

Finally, it was just a few days before the train would be returning the students home for the summer holidays. Harry, the Slytherins, Mandy, and Padma were taking a walk to the outskirts of the grounds, trying to shake off the cloudiness that was a result of too many hours in exams. The prefects organized a yearly, post-exam stroll through the woods so that everyone could get some exercise after studying was finally done, and they had all signed up for the trip almost immediately, desperate for some activity after being hunched over books for weeks-- and in Draco and Harry's case, months.

"I'm sure I got almost everything wrong in that Charms exam," Mandy moaned. Her blonde hair was sticking out all over her head; she had gone completely mad a week before exams and cut it all off since she said it was taking up too much time to wash.

"What does it matter, since Granger is going to be first in every subject anyway?" Draco said. His tone was positively sulky. His father, Harry knew, expected Draco to be first in every class, or at least, ranked before the Muggleborn students.

"Not Potions. That'll be you. And not Defense or History, which will be me," Harry said without a bit of shame.

"How you can stay upright in Binns class and actually take notes is beyond me."

Harry shook his head. "Almost nothing on that exam was what Binns taught in class. He's an awful professor. Maybe half of that stuff was actually on the goblin wars if you're being generous, but the other half wasn't, and that's all he ever covers. I just like history, that's all. It's much more interesting than Binns makes it seem."

They were close to the Forbidden Forest now, near the groundskeeper's hut. Harry peered through the dark, close trees, wondering what it would be like there.

"Firs' years, over here!" the groundskeeper boomed. The man, who had to be a half-giant considering his size, beckoned them closer. Peering around him, some concern on his face, was the tall, thin Percy Weasley, who seemed tiny compared to the groundskeeper.

"We're just waiting for a few more first years, and then we'll head out," Weasley told them, scanning over the Slytherins with distaste. ''You're late, you know. The second- and third-year groups have already left."

While they waited, Blaise and Harry shared a pair of headphones, Draco began berating Crabbe and Goyle about something, Weasley began flipping through a thin book with a shabby, non-descript black cover, and Mandy and Padma took out their ancient runes notes. The two of them and Harry had an appointment tomorrow to meet with Professor Flitwick for permission to attend arithmancy a year early, and the girls had already dove headlong into ancient runes to bring them up to speed on that as well. Padma was ready to start runes as well as arithmancy already, but Mandy was not, and Padma refused to attend without her.

Over the next few minutes, the others going for the walk trickled in: Ron Weasley, now obviously holding hands with the Granger girl; Michael Corner, who had been bullied into it by Terry and Anthony, both whom insisted he was far too pale and then hadn't bothered to go with him; and lastly, the Hufflepuffs, Hannah Abbott and her friend Susan Bones. It took a few moments to get them all settled down, since Ron and Draco had immediately had a spat, but Percy and the groundskeeper, whose name was apparently Hagrid, got them settled quickly and off they went.

The Forbidden Forest was a beautiful walk. It was nothing like Surrey in any way. The trees were thick, the cover almost hiding the sky from view, and the shadows between the trees seemed to hide untold secrets. Wild owls were swooping around everywhere, their flashing gold eyes visible in almost every recess and hollow. The wildflowers were thick along both sides of the path, a tangle of purples, reds, and yellows. Every so often, there would be a buzzing or scurrying that unearthed a strange creature, which Hagrid told them all about in incredible detail. What he didn't know, Weasley did, though his drier recitations weren't quite as interesting.

They wound deeper into the forest, the path spiraling under their feet, until at last they were in a sunny hollow, a spring at its center.

"Now if we're quiet, there should-- ah, there they are!" Hagrid pointed loudly as a herd of unicorns entered the hollow, approaching the spring. They looked once at the students before dismissing them, their white and silver hair gleaming in afternoon light. The girls squealed, barely containing themselves, and the boys tried to pretend they weren't just as excited. One of herd sank to his knees, touching his horn delicately to the surface of the water, and golden light rippled out, purifying the water so the unicorns could drink.

It was odd, Harry thought, that the unicorn had a streak of blood on its neck, but he didn't think much of it really.

 

* * *

 

The Slytherins won the House Cup. The feast was delicious. Then they were on the train, and Harry Did Not Want To Go Home.

Blaise was staring at Harry, whose face was growing tenser and tenser as they pulled into King's Cross. Blaise was wearing his regular robes instead of his school uniform. He seemed relaxed and reminded Harry of Italy, and mopeds, and the owls of the Lavender House.

"I can write, you know. You can send replies back with my owl."

"No, you can't."

"Why?" Blaise looked a bit offended, like maybe Harry didn't want him to write.

"My aunt is the only one who knows I'm a wizard. My uncle and cousin don't. It's for the best." Harry looked down, tugging on his ratty, overlarge jumper. "As far as they know, I've been at Stonewall High, and I've been having my head stuffed down toilets by state school roughs."

Blaise frowned. "I'll make sure the letters only arrive at night, when you're alone. And I'll invite you over as soon as Mother says it's okay. You can say you made a friend at that horrible school and they want you to stay with them. We'll go shopping for school supplies together. Mother loves you; I'm sure she'll say yes."

It felt kind of like an ending anyway. Harry was silent as they got up, heading out into the corridor to disembark from the train. They had barely gotten onto the platform when Padma and her sister Pavarti nearly crashed into them, giggling as they rushed out to meet their parents. Blaise tugged Harry to one side, keeping a hand around his wrist. He waited until Harry looked at him before releasing his grip. "You're my best friend, Harry," he said fiercely. "I am bad at academics, spend entirely too much time napping in public places, and when I'm awake, I'm arrogant and difficult. You not only don't care, but you _like_ me, and never try to change me the way Draco does. I will owl you, and you will be coming over for the summer."

Something about his expression made Harry believe him. Harry smiled slowly, feeling a rising urge to hug his friend, though of course he couldn't. It was one thing to lean on Blaise or walk beside him, or lead him along where he wanted Blaise to go. It was another to embrace the other boy just because Harry was having squishy feelings toward him.

"I'll see you soon, then," he said.

He turned away and walked back into Muggle London for the first time in months, knowing that nothing was the same.

**[End Year One]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, end of Year One! Can't wait for Year Two! There's an easter egg for Year Two in this chapter already, but not sure if anyone will be able to spot it.
> 
> I think it probably deserves a mention at this point that I am getting Ron and Hermione's relationship out of the way early. They're going to have a silly kiddie romance at eleven which will naturally fall apart. Then they'll probably date once more when they're older before laying it to rest, and be friends, and not get married; I've never really thought they were the best match for one another, and I want them to have romantic interests that really make them shine rather than make them hate themselves.
> 
> I've given up entirely on being able to figure out my own posting schedule now that the semester is in full swing. Updates will be on Sunday when they happen. This is all I know.


	9. [Year Two] The Best Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Common sense strikes again, and Harry's birthday is significantly better than it might have been as a result.

_There are certain peculiarities one must consider when working with Pensieve memories for use in a historical account. The first is that if the user of the Pensieve does not record the memories while they're relatively fresh, the memory will degrade, potentially to the point of being unusable. This is why the Grey Lord memories are the most prevalent in this history, since he was a more dedicated and earlier adopter of the Pensieve. His habits with the Pensieve came about due to, as per the Honorable Sir Blaise Zabini, "his bloody-minded habit of sticking his nose into everything."_

_I refrained from commenting at this point in the discussion, which was less discretion and more due to the fact that the noble Grey Lord took that moment to shoot a hex at his friend and everything degenerated from there._

_\-- Nicolas Flamel, from his book,_ The Return of the Three Lords: A History of English Magic

* * *

 

Harry Potter sat in the living room window seat of Number Four, Privet Drive. Harry was watching the sky. It was close to midnight on July 30th, bare minutes away from his birthday on the 31st, and he was hoping for a letter, though he did not expect one. After completing his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—a fairly calm year, full of study, new friends, and the beginning of a mystery—his new friend, Blaise Zabini, had promised up and down to send him letters over the summer. Harry hadn’t yet received a single letter, and the summer was more than half over. So Harry waited at the window, book in hand, and praying that Uncle Vernon didn’t realize he was up.

The summer so far had been full of dinner parties, which meant that Harry had been drafted to help Aunt Petunia in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia took these opportunities to whisper dire threats to Harry about what would happen if he revealed that he had actually spent the school year at Hogwarts rather than Stonewall High, the local state school that Vernon and Dudley, Harry’s cousin, thought he had been attending. Vernon was apparently up for a promotion, and both the adults in the household were alternatively thrilled about what was happening and terrified that something would go wrong.

Aunt Petunia seemed to have become tenser while Harry had been away. Apparently, the owl that had delivered Harry a couple pence for Christmas had been missed only narrowly by Uncle Vernon. Vernon, meanwhile, had grown more relaxed. Harry wasn't sure whether Uncle Vernon knew about the possibility of Harry being a wizard, but either the fact that Harry had successfully passed his eleventh birthday without receiving a Hogwarts letter as far as Vernon knew, or maybe just the fact that Harry had been away for so long, had made Vernon almost jovial.

It was probably Uncle Vernon's good mood, the promotion, or all of the recent dinner guests that had led Vernon to deciding that Harry had best stay in Dudley's second bedroom. Dudley had been furious.

"B-b-but it's _MY_ bedroom!" Dudley had wailed, face screwed up in an expression of exaggerated sorrow and rage. Staring at him in horror, Harry couldn't help but compare his cousin, the overgrown infant, with the smooth, polite Slytherins that were his friends. Dudley was _twelve_ already-- had he no decorum?

But Uncle Vernon had been insistent. "No point in the boy staying under the stairs now!" he had boomed out. "People coming over left and right-- must keep up appearances. No, you'll clean it all out. What if the Masons want a tour?!"

The move had just been completed today, and it was probably the best birthday gift the Dursleys had or would ever give him. While Dudley cleared all the broken things out of the room, amidst sniffles and angry shoves Harry's way, Harry had secreted away all of Dudley's untouched books, a few shelves that were only broken a bit, and an alarm clock that was probably salvageable if Harry got a repair manual at the library. It was an untold treasure to be able to set up shelf after shelf of his books, with only the fantasy novels and his school texts hidden under the bed, and his school trunk at the base of an actual, real, full-size bed-- though the trunk was emptied, of course, in case Dudley or Vernon came snooping.

He would have given up the entire thing, if only Blaise would send him a letter.

The minutes passed and the night dipped into early morning. No letter came.

 

* * *

 

The morning was a whirlwind of preparations for the dinner party that evening, which was for the Masons. This was the big one, the one that would make or break the promotion that Vernon hoped to receive. Harry trimmed the lawn and weeded the flower beds while Uncle Vernon and Dudley went to have their hair trimmed and Aunt Petunia prepared the pudding for that evening.

The sun was breakingly hot; Harry wiped his forehead with the back of one dirty arm, still holding the trowel in his hand. Surana and Whisper, who had taken up residence in the garden for the most of the summer, blinked sleepily at him from their place sunning on a nearby rock, their second eyelids flicking over their lidless eyes.

"This is dull. Take a break and relax, Ssssspeaker," Surana suggested, lashing her tail.

"Relax…." Whisper added, one of his rare forays into speech. He was curled into the symbol for infinity and alchemy, his mouth half-filled with the tip of his own tail.

"Aunt Petunia would have my head," Harry said, laughing. There was a sudden, very human-sounding squeal, and Harry jumped, looking around. The snakes hissed and Surana reeled upward, as tall as she could, her flat head raised so she could stare into the wide face of a house elf.

"W-what…? Who are you?" Harry asked. The house elf blinked at him fearfully, wringing the hem of the dirty pillowcase he wore. His fingers were very long, brownish-green in color, much like the rest of him. Harry wasn't sure if that was his natural skintone or whether he was just incredibly dirty.

"I am Dobby, Harry Potter sir," the elf said. His voice wavered querulously. "And you are in _danger_."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "How? And aren't you one of the Malfoy house elves? You look dreadfully familiar."

Dobby quaked for a moment, his entire body quivering like a leaf on the wind. "Harry Potter mustn't go back to Hogwarts! Bad things will happen to Harry Potter if he goes back to Hogwarts!"

"Bad things will happen if I don't go back to Hogwarts," Harry pointed out, quite sensibly, "as I have loads to do before I have enough training to actually survive danger. Danger that I am mostly aware of, by the way, but if you have any particulars on that danger, feel free to tell them to me. And it's not really my choice whether I attend Hogwarts or not. The adults would come for me if I didn't show up. You would be better off talking to my Head of House if you really wanted me to stop going to Hogwarts-- I'm only eleven. Well, twelve today. Happy birthday to me."

Dobby looked horribly conflicted for a moment before his face crumpled, his large, round eyes shining with sudden tears. "Oh no!" he wailed. "Harry Potter is g-g-going to _die_."

"Hush!" Harry hissed, looking around himself. The neighbors were all gossips, just like Aunt Petunia, and would no doubt come to investigate the noise if they heard it. "Surana, shut him up!"

Surana started to move, but Dobby took something out of a secret pocket in his dirty pillowcase and threw it at Harry. "Here! Take them!" he said, half-crying. "I hoped Harry Potter would not want to go to Hogwarts if he didn't get his letters from his friends, but I will have to find another way to protect him. Oh!" With that last cry, he disappeared with a BANG.

Harry groaned, picking Surana and Whisper up and hiding in the hedges until enough time had passed that the neighbors would no longer be looking for the noise. As he hid, he looked down at what Dobby had tossed him: a packet of letters, each written on thick, crisp paper and tied with green and silver string.

_Harry,_ said the one on top, dated 30 July, _if you don't send back a letter with Morrison straight away, Mother and I will be forced to take action. I fear what your relatives may have done to you. If you cannot return our letter tonight, we will be coming for you at noon tomorrow. I hope the letter finds you well, but if it doesn't, the Muggles will pay._

_I miss Surana._

_Sincerely,_

_your best and smartest friend,_

_Blaise Cosimo Zabini_

 

Harry squeaked, staring at the sun's position in the sky. Noon was fast approaching, and Dudley and Uncle Vernon were due back before too long. Bursting from the hedges, leaving a curious Surana in the bush, Harry rushed back indoors to the brightly lit kitchen of Number Four. "Aunt Petunia!" he shouted.

Aunt Petunia gave him a cross look, putting the last layer in the trifle she planned to serve the Masons. "There's no need to shout, boy," she said, piping whipped cream onto the towering confection.

There was no time to break the news to her gently. "Someone had been keeping my post from me this summer, and my friend was worried about me since I wasn't sending him letters back. I was just given the letters, and he and his mother are coming to get me at noon."

Aunt Petunia turned white as a sheet, let loose a curse word that Harry hadn't known she was even vaguely aware of, and then grabbed the telephone off the wall. She began to dial rapidly, twirling the cord round and round her finger. When whoever she was calling picked up, however, she was the picture of suburban serenity. "Ah, yes, Mr. Wilson. This is Petunia Dursley. Is my husband still at your shop? Oh, he's getting his hair cut as we speak. Yes, ah, please just pass the message on to him that I require a few more ingredients for dinner before he returns home, if you could? He'll need to go to London, to Dreivus'. Oh yes, they _do_ have a lovely selection of fruits-- that's exactly what I needed, actually." She rattled off a list of tropical fruits before concluding with, "Oh, thank you Mr. Wilson. I _do_ so appreciate this. Goodbye."

She hung up the phone with a click and breathed. "Pack your things," she ordered, blue eyes cold as she stared down at her nephew. "I'll tell Vernon that your friend wanted you to visit and I didn't want to give them a chance to take back the offer."

Harry nodded. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia."

"Don't thank me. Just get ready."

Harry repacked his trunk as quickly as possible, pulled it downstairs, then ran back out into the garden to finish what he could and retrieve Surana. He didn't want the chores to be unfinished, given that Petunia was being so helpful in letting him leave. He just barely managed to pull out the last weed when there was the loud crack of an Apparition. Beautiful, graceful Louisa Zabini stood, one hand on her son's shoulder. Blaise had shot up over the summer and was now over a head taller than Harry, but his curls were just as riotous as ever and his smile just as languidly delighted. He saw Harry and vaulted at him, slamming Harry down into the ground. The two boys laughed, tumbling through the front garden. Madam Zabini shook her head, the gold-colored silk ribbon running through her braid glinting in the late morning sunshine.

"Calm down, Blaise. Good morning, Harry. I see that you are well and not dead, though you are rather dirty."

"I'm sorry, Madam Zabini--"

"--Louisa," she corrected. "And you can tell us the tale later. For now, I should speak with your guardian before I spirit you away."

Harry nodded. He tried to stand, but found that Blaise had acquired about twelve more arms and was wound so tightly around him that he wasn't sure he would ever be able to stand again.

"Blaise-- can't-- breathe--"

Blaise let him go with a huff. When he stood, Harry could see Aunt Petunia peering out of the kitchen window, her fading blonde hair wreathing her thin lips. Her gaze was dark, solemn, and just a touch angry. Harry sighed, subdued, as he brought the Zabinis into Number Four.

"Madam Zabini, Blaise, this is my aunt, Petunia Dursley. Aunt Petunia, this is Madam Louisa Zabini and her son, Blaise."

Petunia nodded jerkily, like a puppet. Her shoulders were back and she stood as if she had steel for a spine. She looked small, and very proud, but shabby in comparison to the lush beauty and splendor of Madam Zabini. "A pleasure," she managed to get out. Her teeth seemed reluctant to release the words. "I understand you would like to take the boy for the remainder of the holiday?"

Madam Zabini's mouth was tight. "Yes, I would, if it isn't too much trouble." Something about her tone promised dark pain if Aunt Petunia refused her.

"No, of course not. Just take him before my husband gets home, if you can." Petunia looked out the window again, as if expecting Vernon's car to pull in at any moment, even though she had sent him into London.

"As you wish," Madam Zabini said. "Harry, grab your trunk, then take my hand. Blaise, my shoulder." They did as she said, then Madam Zabini nodded to Petunia before spinning on her heel. They Disapparated with a snap, leaving Petunia standing in the kitchen of Number Four, drying a plate, her heart full of anxious fear.

Harry stumbled and nearly retched when the world finally stopped spinning. He leaned shakily on his trunk for a few moments before he was able to identify where he was: a small alcove off of Diagon Alley near Gringotts, a square of shining golden stones bordered with boxes of red and pink flowers.

"Gringotts' Apparition Alcove," Madam Zabini said, noticing his stare. "For only their most privileged clients, of course. It's the only consistently safe place to Apparate in the entire Diagon Alley, though of course there are other areas in the wizarding parts of London where one might Apparate. Everyone else coming to the Alley, however, must Floo in to the Leaky Cauldron." Her nose wrinkled with distaste at the name.

"Oh." Harry shoved his dirty hands into his sweatshirt pockets. His hood had the familiar, comfortable weight of Surana, who was cursing softly under her breath and considering regurgitating the last thing she had eaten. Apparition had not agreed with her.

"Harry, why didn't you write?" Blaise asked, frowning at his friend. "I wrote you all summer!"

"There was a house elf. I'm still a little confused-- it just happened. But he had my mail, and said something about me being in danger if I went to Hogwarts?"

"There will be enough time for questioning later, Blaise," Madam Zabini said. She checked her pocket watch, an elaborate silver affair engraved with a spiral galaxy. "It's Harry's birthday, after all. Let's get him washed up in our rooms, and then give him the best birthday we can."

 

* * *

 

 

The Zabinis were spending their time in London in a small townhouse on the nearby Persephone Square, which was apparently their residence in England. Persephone Square was just off of Diagon Alley, a very posh district where several well-born families kept their homes in London. Harry was able to take a quick shower, getting the dirt and muck out of his hair and from underneath his fingernails, and then dress in a set of comfortable blue robes they had picked up over the winter holiday in Italy. When he at last emerged from the guest room, Surana curled around his neck and Whisper forming a bracelet about his wrist, the Zabinis were having a luncheon on the balcony.

Harry sat next to Blaise; Madam Zabini poured him some tea, heavy with milk and light on sugar, just as he liked it, and they ate in companionable silence for several long moments.

"You're hair is getting longer, dear, near to your chin," Madam Zabini said at last, critical eyes raking over him, "and you're even thinner than normal. However, you do appear hale and hearty, which begs the question: what was all this about a house elf?"

So Harry told the tale of the house elf, and the fact that he was fairly certain that Dobby was a Malfoy elf. He didn't say anything about the suspicion he was beginning to form, which had to do with the connection between Lord Malfoy and Professor Quirrell, who Harry strongly suspected was allied with or possessed by the Dark Lord. Blaise seemed to pick it up anyway, raising one eyebrow. Harry nodded in reply. Madam Zabini took a sip of her tea.

"All right," she said. Her eyes were thoughtful, but she didn't question him further. "This is a touch worrying. Harry, I will be gifting you with an owl once we return to Italy. I have just bred a lovely black and silver creature, quite small, but perfectly suited to your purposes. I do not want you out of contact like this again, especially if danger is approaching us. Let's put it aside for now, however. What would you like to do for your birthday?"

Harry blinked. "I, um. I-I don't know. I woke up this morning expecting to weed and help Petunia with dinner until I was expected to hide in my room, reading and pretending to be sick while the Dursleys entertained the Masons. Anything would be an improvement, so thank you, Madam Zabini."

Madam Zabini looked like she had just sucked a lemon, which gave her uncanny resemblance to Aunt Petunia for a moment before the expression faded. "All right. We will go to the bookstore, which I am sure you will enjoy to say the least, and for ice cream, and pick up your school supplies, and will have a tremendous day before we go back to Italy. You boys will lounge on the beach for the rest of the holiday, and you will help me tend the owls. Your job for the remainder of this holiday," she said fiercely, "is to be happy, Harry. Can you do that for me?"

Harry could feel his face heating and, oddly, tears pricking his eyes. "Yes, thank you," he said, very softly. Blaise's arm pressed warmly against his for a moment before they left to do all the wonderful things Madam Zabini had mentioned.

It really was the best birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off with year two! Significant changes will abound since Voldemort's return has been pushed way, way up as a result of last year. The boys have been reunited, and Dobby has been introduced, since, as says the Doctor, some things are fixed points in time and Dobby is one of them according to me.
> 
> A love writing Petunia. I don't think she's a particularly kind person, but I understand her and I think that makes me a little more sympathetic than I might be otherwise. And Vernon is just intolerable in all his forms, so a real Situation will occur when he learns what his wife and nephew have been keeping from him-- but that's at least a year away. :)
> 
> The next chapter will take place in London and Italy, and maybe one more chapter in Italy after that, a nice haven for the boys before the stressful year I have planned for them.


	10. [Year Two] Summertime Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry worships books for a while, and learns a few things about his classmates.

* * *

Harry had received, in the packet of letters that Dobby had left him, his Hogwarts letter for the year. His letter was particularly thick, with three separate pieces of parchment. The first was his list of required books, the second his letter of acceptance into third-year Arithmancy, and the third, a short letter from Professor Flitwick. It read:

 

_Dear Mr. Potter,  
_

_I hope that the summer holidays have been restful and that I find you well. Congratulations on your acceptance into Arithmancy! I am proud you are doing your part in upholding the Ravenclaw good name! It is a pleasure and privilege to have you as a member of our house.  
_

_Since we needed to inform you of your early acceptance into Arithmancy, we also decided to send your book list and this letter early to you as well. Headmaster Dumbledore has asked me to request a meeting of you prior to the Welcome Feast at the beginning of the year. The three of us will meet in the Headmaster's Office following your arrival to the school this year.  
_

_All the best wishes for your remaining holiday._

_Sincerely,_

 

_Professor Filius Flitwick_

_Esteemed Professor of Charms, Enchantments, and Glamour_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

Harry frowned as he walked down the sunny streets of Diagon Alley with the Zabinis. He was naturally a bit flummoxed by the whole thing, but the book list took his attention soon enough. The books were mostly unadventurous, standard texts, but the books for Defense Against the Dark Arts were something else. There were two books which were clearly Defense. The first was entitled _Demons, Devils, and Other Creatures_. The second was _Summoning: A Cautionary Tale._

"The DADA books look to be more interesting this year," Harry commented, reading through the letter. He was wearing his blue robe open over his normal summer clothes as a concession to the heat; Surana had stayed in the house on Persephone Square, but Whisper was still curled about his wrist and his tongue flicked out curiously at the letters when Harry dropped most of the packet back into his robe pocket.

"Hm. If I may?" Madam Zabini reached out a hand and Harry gave her the book list. She scanned through it, her gaze lingering over the Defense Against the Dark Arts books.

"That's hardly second year material," she said, frowning. Handing him back his letter, she began making a beeline into Flourish and Blotts. "They look like something a seventh year would use for an independent project, if they were trying for their Defense NEWTs."

Harry stopped paying her any attention once they were surrounded by books. He loved Flourish and Blotts. The tall, towering shelves were full of interesting books that fluttered, moaned, or stayed ominously silent and patient. There were ladders scattered here and there that moved on their own to the person who seemed to need them the most. Some of the books were caged, surrounded on all sides by thick gold wire. A handful of books were being kept in an aquarium; they were bound in what appeared to be some kind of amphibian skin.

Bypassing a large sign that announced an upcoming visit from author Gilderoy Lockhart, Harry dove into the novels section. He had never read a wizarding novel. Last year, he had been too focused on his school books and his upcoming time at Hogwarts to even look for them. This year he had no such problem, and was thrilled to discover such titles as _Gemma and the Time Paradox,_ about a daring young Auror trainee who found herself lost post-Time Turner use, and _The Golden Ships_ , which was told from the perspective of one of the High Elves, who had supposedly taken ships to another land at some point before the remembrance of human history.

He looked up from the shelves to see Blaise happily ensconced in the music history section, and Madam Zabini was flipping through a small volume on what appeared to be undetectable poisons and their affect on men-- Harry didn't want to ask. Next to her, though, was a section on alchemy. The section was small, on the shelf closest to the floor and covered in dust. But it was _there_ , almost like it had been waiting for Harry to find it.

Harry sat directly on the floor in front of the books, running his fingers over the tops of their cool, cloth-bound spines. Not a single one of them was bound in leather, which made sense. Alchemy was concerned with transmutation and sacrifice; since an animal soul had more potential than a cotton or flax soul, for example, it had greater significance to alchemy. When Harry had been able to look through some of Padma's notes on the topic, he had also noticed that tree souls had even more potential than most animal souls, however, especially if the tree sacrificed had been particularly long-lived.

A few of the books were also available to Muggles, who could make neither heads nor tails from them, for the most part. A couple of them were wizards-only, and one of them was written by Nicolas Flamel. It was all about the Philosopher's Stone.

Harry gathered up the lot of them, just to be thorough, and put them all in one of the handy floating shopping baskets that the store had for shoppers. Blaise, who had wandered back over with a book on a man named Rickey Stein on the cover (a gentleman who most decidedly looked like someone who Aunt Petunia would Not approve of, dressed all in tattered black with violently purple hair), laughed.

"Gathering up the whole store, are you, Harry?"

"Alchemy," Harry explained, barely resisting petting the books. "Let's look for the school books. It's not like yours will be any different than mine once you get the letter."

Blaise made a face. "I hate thinking about school before it's even begun. Don't you want to do something more interesting on your birthday?"

Regardless of Blaise's complaining, Harry dragged him off to look for the schoolbooks. At least an hour later, Madam Zabini found them again and took them out of the store entirely for ice cream, the apothecary, and to make Harry get fitted for lengthened robes and a few more sets of casual _subfusc_ to wear with his summer robes.

"I detest these English tailors," she confided, just prior to entering Madam Malkin's, "but needs must, and I don't intend to leave the villa for some time once we return to Italy. Not for shopping, anyway."

 Blaise had been forced into new clothes as well, which he did not enjoy, since he apparently preferred to shop at a little market stall in the Magnolia District, which had rip-off tour shirts for all his favorite bands. They then made a quick stop at the eyeglasses shop where Harry had gone the year before-- he wanted to get the charm for seeing vampires and ghosts, which seemed like it would be useful in Hogwarts-- and then Blaise wanted to go to a music shop, where they spent nearly as much time as they had at the bookstore.  Blaise bought a number of new discs for his Sing-spinner, and then, finally, they went back to the house on Persephone Square. Madam Zabini and Blaise plied him with more food and gifts, including some from the Malfoys, and one that they had been holding from Luna Lovegood, who Harry had met at the Malfoys' Yule party the year before: an ear cuff that was engraved with a number of silvery bells and would apparently chime softly to him alone if he was in imminent danger.

"It's a bit girly, isn't it?" Harry said, looking at it suspiciously. Madam Zabini covered a laugh. Blaise just snorted, snatching it from Harry's hand it putting it on for him.

"If anyone needs to be told about imminent danger," he said, "it's definitely you. You would probably start questioning the imminent danger about its care and feeding, its cultural background, and what wars its people fought in the 1400s."

That night, Harry went to bed quite alone and was woken up when Blaise shoved him over, climbing in beside him and forcefully grasped his wrist, muttering something dark about wanting to make sure that that Harry didn't disappear. Blaise's curls were a warm, soft brush against Harry's shoulder, his body tense with fright. Harry leaned in and did not complain.

The next day they were off to Italy.

 

* * *

 

As it had been before, the Magnolia District in Positano was wonderful. The Lavender House where the Zabinis lived was bright and happy. Some corners of it were filled with soft owl down due to Madam Zabini's hobby of owl-breeding, and at this time of year, all of the flowers were seductively in bloom. Harry spent much of his time in the gardens, where Madam Zabini had allowed him to have a little spot to try growing some ingredients for alchemical potions, with the promise that she would watch over it while he was at school. Much to Surana and Whisper's dismay, as well, Harry had a new companion in the owl Damian, named after the Italian alchemist John Damian. Harry called him Demi for short. Demi was a black-banded owl bred by Madam Zabini. Though he largely slept during the day, he would spend mornings, evenings, and nights on Harry's shoulder. Arms bare but for Whisper curled around his upper arm, Surana sunning at his side, the four of them spent much time in the gardens or over bubbling potions, causing Blaise to compare Harry to certain pictures of Merlin.

Of course, there was plenty of time for the sea and the markets, and Blaise was trying to show Harry how to dance to wizard club rock, which was not going spectacularly. Madam Zabini had a frequent gentleman caller of high standing, and although she kept the man away from the boys for the most part, it did keep her more occupied than she had been at Yule. The boys were left on their own for much of August, with each other and the house elves for company. Harry tanned to a nut brown, but was still several shades lighter than Blaise, and was slowly making progress on his Italian, though he couldn't write it very well and sometimes a turn of phrase would confound him.

Toward the end of the month, about a week before they would be heading back to England and Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Harry was reading his books near his alchemical garden. A sleeping humdinger flower was snoozing a few inches away from his head, its blue petals nearly brushing his face, as he used one of the thick books by a friend of Flamel, a Gaston Pierre, to block out the sun.

Blaise threw himself onto the ground next to Harry, their arms brushing together. He tossed what looked like a Daily Prophet over on Harry's chest, frowning. Harry frowned back, resting the book open against his chest and unfurling the Prophet.

"What is it?" he asked, before the headline caught his eye.

 

**WEASLEY CHILD IN COMA!!!**

 

_Middle son of Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, and Molly Weasley née Prewett, Percy Ignatius Weasley, recently fell into a mysterious coma. Could this be a hex, related to Arthur Weasley's frequent raids of the Malfoy Manor? Could it be the ancestral curse in Molly Weasley's Prewett blood, finally dooming one of her sons much like it did all the male members of the Prewett line?_

 

The article continued for some time in the same tone of rampant speculation, occasional lies, and blatant accusation, but Harry stopped reading it.

"Brave, going after the Malfoys," he said, "or more likely, stupid."

He liked Percy Weasley, sort of. Not many people did, even his brothers. Percy was fussy and odd, but he had genuinely seemed to care about Harry, even if he went about it in all the wrong ways. Clearwater would definitely be upset. She and Percy had been close friends, from what Harry had managed to gather.

"Do you think it's likely to be related? To the Dark Lord?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't even considered that. "I don't know how it would be, but I guess we can't dismiss it." He tried to remember anything that had been different about Percy those last few days of class, which had to have been the last time he was in contact with Quirrell, but couldn't think of anything. Harry was actually fairly certain that the last time he had seen Percy he had been reading a thin, tattered book, but that was just par for the course with Percy.

"I'll try to learn more about how he fell into a coma. He's friends with the Ravenclaw prefect who oversaw the first years, Penelope Clearwater."

"I'll ask Draco. His father knows just about everything about everyone. He's been a bit odd about his letters this year, though, and he hasn't always been responding. He never mentioned anything when I sent him the letter about Dobby, and Mother sent a similar letter to Lady Malfoy and didn't receive a response either. We'll see him soon enough, I suppose."

Harry nodded. He hadn't heard from Draco at all, though he'd had a chance to read the letters that Dobby had taken from him. The first had been cheery, the second tense about Harry's lack of response, and the third positively curt. He had sent one more along with Blaise's, saying he was happy Harry was all right, and that was it. Harry was starting to wonder if Draco was mad at him or them for some reason, but he didn't know why.

Heaving a sigh, Blaise pouted up at the sun, obviously brooding over Draco and Percy Weasley. Harry struggled for a moment to think of what to say to take Blaise's mind off of it before he remembered what he'd been learning.

"Oh, did I tell you about how Michael Corner's always covered in blood?"

Blaise whipped his head around. "No…."

Harry laughed. "Well, he is. Surana could smell it on him when we first met him. And he's covered in runes and scars. I've been reading, and I think he does blood magic. He must be keeping it secret because it's mostly illegal, but his family must practice it."

"Hmm…. They are a very old Welsh family. They say that the Corners are descended from Guinevere, and many of the Welsh wizards still practice blood and Earth magic, though we're not supposed to know about it and the Ministry turns a blind eye." At Harry's furrowed brow, he added, "The old Welsh families are all druids, you know. Blood and Earth, tied to the land the way they say the Three Kings were. Something about ley lines… Harry, you don't have time for another research project, and we're having a hard enough time keeping your blood in your veins as it is, what with Dark Lords and--"

"But it’s terribly interesting," Harry said earnestly. "I suppose since it's a secret, Michael wouldn't be willing to tell me about it."

Blaise looked at him flatly. "No."

"But--"

"No."

"I really think--"

"No. Let's go inside for lunch. Mother is waiting."

 

* * *

 

A week later, they passed a very solemn and tearful pack of Weasleys on their way into the train. A few yards away from the red-headed bunch, Madam Zabini stopped them, looking rather tearful herself as she adjusted Blaise's tie and tried, vainly, to smooth down Harry's messy hair. However, Madam Zabini was exceedingly composed compared to Mrs. Weasley's sobs as she clutched the only daughter of her bunch. The girl was patting her mother awkwardly, staring pointedly at her brothers for help.

"Don't go looking for trouble, but if it finds you, be cunning and smart," Madam Zabini said. "Owl me immediately. Be quiet, listen much, and learn to read between what the professors are willing to tell you and what they are not. You're both to owl me weekly regardless, even if you don't think you have anything to say. Avoid being alone with anyone you don't completely trust, even a professor. If you see that house elf again, tell me and notify your Head of House."

She took a breath, looking between the boys before giving the sharp, decisive nod, like she had reached a decision. It was clearly where Blaise had gotten it from; he often did the same. To Harry's surprise, she drew them both into a hug, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads before releasing them.

"Go," she ordered, folding her hands behind her back.

Harry was still in a bit of shock from the hug, so Blaise tugged him along. After a moment, Harry found his feet again.

"She means well," Blaise muttered, cheeks flushing. "She's a bit overbearing."

"No. It was… nice."

Once again, they boarded the scarlet Hogwarts Express for school. Harry wondered what he would learn this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've mentioned subfusc a few times now, and I should probably explain for those who don't know what it is. In England, there are some universities that require students to wear certain clothing with robes at various occasions, notably Oxford students during examinations. I'm using it here to refer to the clothing that wizards wear under their robes. In the books, the Weasleys wear dresses, jumpers, and otherwise normal Muggle type clothing along with robes. Older wizards (evidenced in Book 4 and with the Quidditch Cup) do not understand regular Muggle clothing. So I developed a specific kind of subfusc that wizards wear, but is not quite Muggle clothing except in the case of progressive wizards, like the Weasleys. This is why when Harry was at Yule, he was wearing a modified version of certain Roman clothing, with a tunic as part of his subfusc.
> 
> In other news, class is absolutely murdering my free time, but I will update as soon as I can. I have a bunch of ideas for Year 2,more than one of which I am incredibly excited about. You can probably tell, but things have begun to diverge even more than they did in Year 1, and very few of the events in Book 2 are going to play out in Common Sense. I'll be able to get more into the Arthurian legend stuff now, I hope, and Luna should be around more. Other things to look forward to are blood magic, alchemy, Ravenclaw girls being really freaking awesome, and Draco's life being difficult. There will be two characters introduced as important figures that I haven't mentioned much yet, which I am looking forward to; they'll probably appear in the next couple chapters. I should probably update my tags again....


	11. [Year Two] Headmaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry journeys back to Hogwarts, and has a very Slytherin meeting with the Headmaster.

* * *

It was different, walking down the Hogwarts Express in your second year. Harry knew most of the students, by sight if not by name. Blaise and Harry had to dive to the sides of train as the Weasley twins pelted after Lee Jordan, tackling him onto the floor. Harry peeled himself up a little shakily, catching sight of Theodore Nott, who gave him and Blaise a cautious nod before slipping into his compartment with Zacharias Smith. Before he could actually get back to Blaise's side, Padma and Mandy slammed into him, jumping up and down with joy.

"Arithmancy! A year early!" Padma practically swooned, leaning her forehead on Harry's shoulder. Her hair, thick and dark, smelled like cinnamon. "I can't believe they actually let us!"

"Why didn't you answer our letters, Harry? Couldn't you get owl post with the Muggles?" Mandy socked him in the shoulder. Her hair, which she had cut with a potions knife during finals last year, was no longer choppy and uneven, but cropped neatly at her chin.

"There was a house elf…."

"Arithmancy!" Padma said again, urgently. She seemed incapable of saying anything else.

 "You're blocking the aisle." Padma, Mandy, Harry, and Blaise all looked up at the sound of Draco's drawl. Draco was already in his school robes, blonde hair slicked back from his forehead and his face even paler than normal. Unlike Harry and Blaise, it was clear he had gotten very little summer sunshine.

"Draco," Blaise said with a nod, reaching out to grasp Draco's arm. His hand wound around Draco's forearm, close to the elbow, and Draco did the same. They held on for a moment before releasing.

"Draco," Harry said, softly. He was nervous, like Draco might yell at him. Draco had been so strange over the summer. Despite his fears, Draco gave him a rare smile, eyes softening as he reached out to grasp Harry's arm the same as he had Blaise.

The girls hovered for a moment, obviously intimidated by the hulk of Crabbe and Goyle behind Draco. Harry looked back at them apologetically, but Mandy shrugged at him and knocked him on the shoulder again. "Come find us later in the train ride," she suggested. We'll be in compartment 6B." Padma nodded in agreement and the two girls disappeared into the nearby compartment.

"I've got a compartment for us ready," Draco said grandly, sweeping down the aisle. Students scattered before him, pushed aside by Crabbe and Goyle much like they always were. Harry frowned to see it for once, though. After all, he would have liked to talk to the girls more, but they had been so intimidated that they hadn't wanted to stay. Harry didn't say anything this time, though, but just tucked his hands into his pockets and ran his fingers along the spine of the book tucked there. Surana hissed softly around his neck like a purr before she perked up a little, rubbing her head along Harry's neck as they filed into the compartment.

"Smellsssss like blood," she said sleepily.

Harry blinked, struggling to put his trunk into the overhead compartment. "Corner?" he asked her quietly.

She yawned widely, showing fang. "No," she disagreed. "The Malfoy boy…."

Harry had absolutely no idea what to make of that. For all he knew, it could be a pureblood blood magic ritual. It was the first time Surana had smelled it. "Keep a nose on him, then," Harry said before taking his seat.

"Ssssshould just bite him," Surana grumbled, before falling to sleep once more.

The boys all sat down. Crabbe and Goyle immediately set up a game of Exploding Snap, their gruff mutters making it sound as if they had been playing it by owl all summer, though how you could play a game like Exploding Snap by owl, Harry didn't know. Draco watched them for a moment. He looked a bit lost, still too pale. He shook his head after a moment and looked back at Harry, eyes narrowing. "You're still too thin," he said decidedly. "How long were you with the Muggles?"

Harry shrugged. "Just until my birthday. I've been with Blaise since."

Draco nodded. "Good. Mother wanted me to make sure you have your own owl now, but I can see that Madam Zabini took care of that." He gestured to Demi, who ruffled his feathers importantly and cocked his head to the side. Surana grumbled at the movement, burrowing further into hiding against Harry. The owl and the snakes still hadn't quite come to an agreement.

Draco leaned forward on his knees, looking at Blaise. "Did you hear about the new professor?" he asked.

Frowning, Blaise asked, "Is Quirrell leaving on sabbatical again?"

There was a knock on their compartment door before Draco could answer. Crabbe and Goyle put down their game and lumbered to their feet, glaring suspiciously. Draco flicked his eyes to them, then back to the door. "Come in," he ordered. The door slid open. It was a girl, tall for an eleven-year-old, blond, with radish earrings and a bottlecap necklace.

"Luna!"

Luna smiled at Harry, walking forward. Her luggage floated along behind her. It wasn't a trunk, but a set of very sturdy and worn-looking cases, covered in various kinds of animal hide and strung with little metal charms and discs. "Harry. Did you like your present? I searched for it for quite a while."

Harry touched the ear cuff self-consciously. He still thought it was a bit girly. "Yes, thank you, Luna."

"I got it in the wilds of Beshaar," Luna said. She gestured with her hands and the luggage flew into the compartments. "Father and I love the little markets there."

"Beshaar?" Even as he asked, Draco gestured abruptly for Crabbe and Goyle to resume their game. The two sat, still eyeing the girl suspiciously. "And _what_ are you doing in our compartment, Lovegood?"

"Oh, so you _do_ remember my name. I was worried you had been beset by Hifflestumps. They are known for making people forget others' names and favorite foods, you know. I know that I am still safe, since I remember that your favorite is Namalia's Nightshade Chocolates." She dug in her satchel for a moment and produced a violently purple box, which made Draco's eyes light up and actually gave his face some color.

"You may stay," he decided, reaching for the box.

"Thank you. I was quite worried." Luna looked at the train benches, and then took a seat between Crabbe and Goyle. The two looked down at her simultaneously. Their expressions were so utterly bewildered that Harry had to shove his hand in his mouth to stifle a laugh. They both looked up at Draco questioningly. Harry could practically see the "Should we crush it?" in their eyes. Draco just raised his eyebrows at them and selected a chocolate from his box. Crabbe turned back to the game, but Goyle looked intensely discomforted.

Ignoring this entire byplay, Luna said, "To answer your question, Beshaar is the magical country just east of Colombia. It has a number of magical creatures. Father and I often spend summers with the Scamanders, searching out new beasts."

Harry's eyes widened. "An entire magical country! I've only heard them mentioned in some of the texts, and not often. Besides Atlantis and Elizabeth's Isle in the Bermuda Triangle, of course, there don't seem to be many. Though now that you mention it, there have been a lot of references to Beshaar and the Dream's Eye in a number of texts I've read. What's it like there?"

Luna considered that for a long few moments. "Just lovely," she finally said. "There are houses in tall, giant mushrooms, which they have instead of trees, and fairies everywhere. The trees they do have are all kinds of twisted shapes. Cultivating them is a respectable artform. I have a set of the mushrooms in my room at home, though Father says I must be careful to contain their spores. They are used for certain dream potions, you know."

Blaise had a skeptical expression on his face. Harry ignored it. "Maybe someday I'll be able to go."

"You will," Luna said, and the assurance in her voice was absolute. "Though it may be some time. After all, you're chained to our good English soil, and it will be many years before you can venture off of it."

"Yeah, I suppose, given that I'm twelve."

Luna just smiled.

"Are you nervous about your sorting?"

"No, not at all," said Luna. "It's most likely that I will be joining you in Ravenclaw."

They talked for a good half of the train ride about magical creatures. Every so often, one of the others interjected that the creature didn't actually exist, but Harry and Luna mostly ignored them. Draco and Blaise ended up talking in hushed voices, and Crabbe and Goyle moved on to wizarding chess. Crabbe was actually quite good at it, especially compared to Goyle, who had nearly failed the year prior.

There was a reserved compartment in the back of the train for changing, in case the students weren't able to change into their school robes in their own compartment. Harry had just gone back to it, right as the sky was turning dark and they were fast-approaching Hogsmeade, when he realised that Draco had never told them about the new professor.

 

* * *

 

 

The students of Hogwarts disembarked the Hogwarts Express in a seething knot of shouting, excited children. The prefects were desperately trying to regain order. Harry kept searching for Percy's tall, stern presence, perhaps simply because he knew he wouldn't be able to see the other boy anywhere.

Hagrid was shouting for the first years, so Harry waved at Luna as she bustled off, her lanky body awkwardly weaving between her classmates. On the platform, Professor Flitwick was jumping up and down excitedly, waving his purple hat in the air. "Mr. Potter! Misses Patil and Brocklehurst! Over here, please, over here!"

Harry left Blaise, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle and made his way with the girls over to Flitwick. "Please, enter the carriage!" Flitwick said importantly, pointing at a nearby carriage. "We're departing a few minutes before the rest-- Headmaster Dumbledore wanted to meet with three such bright students before the feast began!"

They shuffled into the carriage, knocking into one another good-naturedly. Flitwick entered after them, nearly falling over once the carriage lurched off. "Now, he wants individual meetings, but we must be quick so we don't hold up the feast," said Professor Flitwick. "Oh, I'm so excited! Such bright students, in _my_ House."

The girls giggled. Harry hid a smile. Flitwick beamed at all three of them for the entire ride and the girls plied Harry with chocolate so he would tell them about his summer. Mandy's Da, who loved Muggle football, the local pub, and information systems, had said read some of Mandy's books on theory about the interference of magic with electricity and had set up an electrical field that allowed Mandy to use magic at home.

"Mum didn't approve until she realized that it also kept the Ministry from realizing when she was using some not-quite-legal charms." Mandy laughed, looking over at Flitwick for a moment to make sure he didn't hear, but Flitwick was babbling cheerfully about their upcoming year to a patiently nodding Padma.

They pulled into the courtyard in front of Hogwarts and left the carriage. Harry stopped, looking up at the heavy stone walls, the high arches, and the narrow windows. There was a cool breeze coming off the lake and a languid splash from the giant squid as it flexed its tentacles. Harry could feel a hum of magic coming from the building itself, the stone creaked audibly, groaning a welcome as Harry, Padma, and Mandy, the first students of the year, began to enter. Flitwick squeaked, rocking back, and Padma stared up at the building like she had never seen it before.

"Does it… normally do that?"

"No, no, no not usually no," Flitwick said. He looked up at the castle nervously. "Let's find Dumbledore, shall we?"

They wound their way through the castle to a statue of gargoyle. Flitwick managed to get it to move aside with the password of "Atomic Fireballs" and led them up the winding staircase  to a landing that had overstuffed armchairs for them to wait in. Mandy had the first meeting, then Padma, and then, finally, Harry.

Harry hated being last. Although he hadn't been nervous to meet the headmaster initially, he was by the time Padma sailed down the staircase to link arms with Mandy.

"See you at the feast, Harry!" she said breezily, her eyes glittering with excitement. She looked quite cheerful. Harry swallowed hard as Flitwick gestured for him to approach and ascend the stairs. There was nothing to be nervous about, really. He knew he wasn't in trouble, but all he could think of was when he had turned the teacher's hair blue before he had known he had magic, and he was irrationally frightened at his reception.

He went up the stairs slowly. Flitwick chattered at him about some of the things he had planned for teaching this year, which Harry would normally have been very interested in, but at this point he was more concerned with his mental image of the Headmaster looking at him over his half-moon spectacles, shaking his head with a disappointed expression on his face.

The door at the top of the staircase was open and Dumbledore was smiling behind his desk, surrounded by a dozen swirling, glowing bits and bobs, a violently red bird glowing proudly on a perch near his desk. Harry was distracted by that, and approached Headmaster Dumbledore more quickly than he meant to.

"Are you a phoenix?" Harry asked the bird quietly, reaching out with an open palm. The phoenix bit his palm softly and companionably, so Harry felt free to scratch the bird's neck. "I'm Harry. You're terribly interesting, you know. They say that the Light Lord had a phoenix as a companion, and that she first came to him when he was still chained to the earth. She healed his wounds with her tears and bit his shackles away...."

Harry flushed, looking up at Professor Dumbledore shyly.  "I'm sorry, sir. I got distracted. Thank you for meeting with me."

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Quite all right, Harry," he said. "Fawkes does tend to have that effect."

"Oh, like Guy Fawkes, because of the Burning Day!" Guy Fawkes was also somewhat controversial, considering he had tried to blow up the government... Harry wondered if naming the phoenix Fawkes was a political statement.

The phoenix trilled quietly, flying up to Harry's shoulder. Startled, Surana poked her head up from where she was curled beneath Harry's robes, head rearing to stare down the phoenix, who looked at her mildly, preening Harry's hair.

"Phoenixes," Surana grumbled. "They always feel sssssso entitled to steal everyone's human."

"I didn't realize you had a snake, Harry," Dumbledore said.

Harry blinked.  "Oh, yes! I've had her since last summer. She's been a tremendous friend. But I'm sure my snake isn't what you wanted to discuss, Headmaster."

"No, no, of course not, Harry. I just wanted to check in on how you feel about your increased course load, and make sure you know there's no shame in dropping Arithmancy if it becomes necessary and you feel overwhelmed later in the year."

"Of course. I actually find the course load a bit light, but I have plenty of side projects to keep me occupied." Using Surana to stalk Professor Quirrell being one of them.

"Wonderful! We are so proud of you three, Harry!" Flitwick exclaimed.

"Hopefully, this year will bring you a few new challenges," said Dumbledore, still twinkling like he knew something Harry didn't.

"Of course, Headmaster." He hesitated for a moment. "Do you know how Percy Weasley is, sir?"  Seeing Dumbledore's surprised expression, he explained, "It's just that, he was rather kind to me last year, if a bit... misguided. He didn't approve of my friends, but it was nice of him to take an interest."

"I suppose it won't hurt to tell you that Mr. Weasley is, unfortunately, showing little improvement. He remains in a state of stasis. Speaking of your friends…."

"Professor Quirrell wouldn't know anything about it, would he?" That clearly threw the Headmaster. "It's just that he knows so much about the Dark Arts, you know."

"And why would you assume it was the Dark Arts affecting Mr. Weasley?"

"Oh, I guess I was just assuming," said Harry. He was unsure how much of his hand he was giving away, or if he even cared that Dumbledore knew that he knew that something wasn't quite right with Quirrell.

"Though, speaking of Professor Quirrell, make sure to report to me if his behavior is changed this year. It's his second consecutive year teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, you know. He was a professor of Muggle Studies, then Defense, and then took a year sabbatical to gain more experience. A bright student. Very bright, perhaps great."

Harry was beginning to believe that "great" was a wizarding synonym for "dangerous."

"Of course, Headmaster. Thank you for your concern with all this."

They parted, Harry heading down to the feast, and he felt like that was the most Slytherin discussion he had ever had-- and all his friends were actually Slytherins, unlike Dumbledore.

Dumbledore knew that Quirrell was affiliated with Voldemort. Why wasn't he doing anything about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a choice between getting this to you today and writing another page and carrying it through the feast. I chose to get it to you today. Regardless, I am fairly proud of how this chapter came out, since I accomplished quite a bit in it. Surprising, considering that all they did was ride a train, but I laid down some groundwork that needed doing, and finally got Dumbledore and Harry speaking.
> 
> Draco is being difficult, and giving me trouble, but at least there's Luna, who is my fictional soulmate. Next chapter has to pick up at the feast, because of reasons, but I'm sure you'll find what happens there surprising. Needless to say, I am looking forward to it.


	12. [Year Two] Sorting and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is finally back at Hogwarts, and life seems quite full of intrigue all of a sudden.

* * *

 After his meeting with Dumbledore, Harry joined the rest of his housemates at the Ravenclaw table. Though books were prevalent on the table as well as stuffed into robes' pockets, most of the students were staring at their plates with the dead-eyed fixation of the ravenously hungry. Mandy was muttering some kind of negotiation to who-knows-who about favors she would give if the food should just appear on her plate-- right now, please-- it didn't even have to be everyone's plates; just hers was fine, please, she was so hungry.

"Hi, Harry," said Anthony Goldstein. He was sitting between Terry Boot and Michael Corner, reading a thick book that he had propped up onto his plate while he waited for the new firsties to come into the Great Hall. At his greeting, the other two boys joined him in a chorus of hellos.

"Hallo," Harry said, sliding onto the bench next to Padma and across from Anthony. He looked across the room at the Slytherin table to make sure that Blaise had made it safely without walking into any walls or getting tossed out of a carriage; Blaise had, though he was frowning somewhat severely at Draco. For his part, Draco was ignoring Blaise and chatting with what had to be the most irritating girl in existence, Pansy Parkinson. ("Well-blooded, but no title," Blaise had informed Harry last year, "and always scrambling for one, just like her mother.)

Harry turned back just in time to see Dumbledore, who had followed after him into the Great Hall, take his own seat at the head table. Harry had been too nervous and distracted to notice earlier, but Dumbledore's bright yellow robes were so bright they were almost blinding, especially in a place as well-lit as the Great Hall.

Seated not far from him were two new professors, both younger-looking than Professor Dumbledore by a number of years. One was male and the other female. The male had a great black beard that was braided and had glimmering gold hair beads throughout it. His curly hair was as wild as Hagrid's. The female had similarly wild golden hair leashed by braids and silver beads, all coiled around her head. Her own beard was much smaller, and strung through with glittering green gems. The two were clearly dwarves.

Hogwarts really need some sort of student publication, like a newsletter or a paper, because Harry really wanted an excuse to ask people all of the questions he was dying to know. Dwarves were almost never mentioned in most history texts, which focused heavily on wizard/Muggle and wizard/goblin interactions. Harry wanted to know-- did dwarves feel like their territory was being invaded by goblins? Did they have their own language? What was it called? Did they know where the high faeries went, since they were cousins? Did they still value war and weaponry in the modern day? Most importantly, where could he get books on dwarven history?

As the first years began to file in, terror on their tiny little faces-- and to think that Harry had been one only last year!-- Harry tore his gaze away from the dwarves to seek out Professor Quirrell.

Quirrell looked so different that Harry had to search through the head table two times to actually find him. The turban was gone; his natural black hair has grown enough to form a kind of Romanesque haircut, making his face almost as severe as Professor Snape's. His expression and general demeanor were so vastly opposite what they had been before that it was the most shocking thing of all. His face was smoothly, confidently amused, his shoulders were back, and he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as the children took their places, ready to be sorted.

"Whoa, look at Quirrell!" Terry exclaimed, following Harry's gaze. The whispers began to spread throughout the hall, and now that everyone was looking at the head table, they had noticed the dwarven couple as well.

"Silence, please!" Professor McGonagall said, her voice carrying through the entire hall. Everyone fell silent immediately. "We are here presently to sort our new students into the Houses, which will be their home for their time at Hogwarts. As each new student wears the Sorting Hat for the first time, I ask our current student body to welcome them wholeheartedly into their new Hogwarts family."

A giant cheer rose from the tables, including the Weasley twins yelling, "Can't we eat first?!?" at the top of their lungs. The professor looked at them all so severely that it only took them a moment to quiet down.

"If everyone could behave with decorum," Professor McGonagall said icily, "then we could begin."

Harry turned his attention to the front. The Sorting Hat rumbled for a moment, as if thoughtful. All of the first years jumped, and an especially little one squeaked and fell over. After a long moment, the brim finally split into a mouth as the Sorting Hat burst into song:

_"Oh once in the days of old,_

_when I was newly sewn,_

_There were four founders here_

_and each one was bright and bold._

_In battle, brave Gryffindor was quite the sight._

_None dared match his endless might._

_And sly Slytherin the snake was wise,_

_knew when to tell truth, and when to tell lies._

_Lady Ravenclaw the Canny, mind bright as her crown,_

_solved all problems with her wits and never let her friends down._

_Lastly was Lady Hufflepuff the Kind, loyal to a fault._

_Even in her cups, she knew true friendship can't be bought._

_Oh choose your path wisely,_

_live life by the Grey Sword,_

_and listen to the Sleeping Kings,_

_said the four founders of the lore."_

The room burst into applause when the last note trailed off. Harry clapped as well. The Sleeping Kings had to be from Arthurian legend, or maybe from the Three Kings or Three Lords myth. Harry greatly appreciated those references, since it was one of his favorite parts of wizarding history.

"Quiet down!" said Professor McGonagall sternly. "Creevey, Colin!" The tiny boy who had nearly fallen over shuffled up and clambered onto the stool.

As the sorting commenced, Padma offered a soft, running commentary about the new students' backgrounds, what she was sure that Pavarti would think of their style choices, and who might be competition in classes. Mandy continued staring at her plate while the boys tussled over Quidditch teams.

"I am sleepy," Surana declared, her head bare inches from Harry's ear. "And it issss boring here. Can I eat one of the dwarvesss?"

Harry smothered a laugh and replied to her, "No. I want to ask them about mining rights and how they felt about the goblins winning rights to mine in Ireland, as well as their rule over the mountains in Romania."

 Surana huffed, her breath a gust of hot air against Harry's neck. "No fun, Speaker."

"Who are you talking to, Harry?"

Harry flushed, looking up into Anthony Goldstein's dark eyes. The other boy was across from him, his book still open on his golden plate.

"Oh, just Surana," he said, feeling awkward under the other boy's steady gaze.

"Why, is she asking you something?" Anthony teased. His fingers curled over the cover of his book, digging into the leather. Harry knew that he didn't know that Harry could talk to Surana. The only one that knew that was Blaise.

"Just wondering if she can eat a dwarf," Harry said, absolutely deadpan.

Anthony laughed, but stopped when Professor McGonagall glared down at them and said, voice like a whip, "Lovegood, Luna."

Luna, taller than Creevey by more than a hands-length and with her blonde hair glowing under the lights, sat primly on the stool. Harry touched the ear cuff on his ear, his heartbeat speeding up with nerves. He fisted his hands in his robes as the hat shifted and mumbled to itself on Luna's head. Harry could swear he heard, "Crazier than a bag of cats... must be... RAVENCLAW!!!"

Harry jumped to his feet and cheered as Luna smiled so luminously that she looked more like a light bulb than a human girl.

"Please move," Luna told Anthony, quite firmly. The boy looked at her askance, but with good humor he slid down a little, squishing into Terry. On his part, Terry elbowed him. Luna graciously took her seat across from Harry.

"I told you I would be Ravenclaw," she said, "it's my mother's house, you know, and she's quite dead, but I'll tell father and he'll be very proud of me for her."

"Congratulations," Harry said, still grinning at her. She nodded and looked down at the book Anthony had left on the plate in front of her.

"This one is quite bad," she told him. "You would be better served with a book by Amilius Thorpe." For whatever reason, Anthony turned red, the first time Harry had ever seen the older boy lose his composure, and snatched the book up. Harry tried to catch a look at the title, but couldn't. He would have to look up Amilius Thorpe and see if that gave him any insight.

The sorting continued, finally ending with, "Weasley, Ginny!" who went to Gryffindor with her family.

After it ended, Dumbledore stood. His robes almost burned Harry's eyes, making him blink rapidly in the light of the floating candles.

"If I could have your attention," the Headmaster said dryly. "To avoid mealtime gossip, I find it necessary to make a few introductions before the meal, since I am sure our newest additions have caught your attention. Beside me are two rather remarkable dwarves and dear personal friends of mine and of Hogwarts herself, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel."

Padma nearly swooned back off of the bench. The older students started to mutter, a low hum rising to hover over the tables like a fog. Of the younger years, besides Padma and a tense-looking Mandy, only Pavarti went white as the Grey Lady's ghost. Harry sought out Blaise's gaze, and found Blaise looking back at him, eyes wide.

The Flamels were _dwarves_? How had the books all left out the fact that the one known maker of the Philosopher's Stone was a _dwarf_?

"The Flamels will be joining us as our new professors of the History of Magic, given that they have lived more of it than most. Professor Binns unfortunately decided to retire after a rather excited staff meeting this summer." Harry wasn't sure if he was imagining Headmaster Dumbledore's eyes flicking to Professor Quirrell and away, but suspected that he wasn't. "Doing so caused him to pass on, and we wish him all the best in his afterlife."

A muted cheer rose from the Gryffindor table yet again, and since there was no Percy Weasley to smother it, it went on until Professor McGonagall could make her way over to quiet them down.

"Now that our curiosity has been satiated, we can feel free to dig in!"

With that, the food appeared on all the golden platters, and everyone did, indeed, feel free to dig in.

 

* * *

 

The meal wound down. The Weasleys appeared to lose steam and energy, no longer breaking into cheer, muttering comments, or indeed speaking at all. Ron Weasley was obviously turned away from Granger, whom Harry had thought he was dating, and the twins fell into a kind of stupor after eating. Little Ginny was looking tense, irritated by the presence of Creevey at her side. Across the room, the Slytherins were picking at their food. Draco had his head ducked and was discussing something fiercely with Crabbe and Goyle. Blaise was falling asleep in his pot roast. The Hufflepuffs were playing a game of table Quidditch involving breadsticks and meatballs, and the Ravenclaws were debating the finer points of Swishmark's Theory of Levitation.

A melting warmth settled into Harry's bones, causing him to lean heavily on the scarred wood of the table. Surana hissed gently in his ear, her coils slung around his neck and shoulders under his robes, hot wherever her scales touched his skin.

"Happy to be home?" she asked, voice fond.

Harry found himself staring sleepily at Anthony, who was watching Terry and Michael argue Quidditch with his chin propped up with a fist. The other boy's golden hair was curling gently around his ears, and the way his lips were curved into an amused smile made Harry feel strangely light-headed. Luna covered Harry's eyes with one be-ringed hand.

Squawking, Harry reeled back, knocking into Padma. They fell to the floor in a ruffled heap. The entire hall went silent, and then burst into raucous laughter. Red-faced, Harry helped Padma up. She was laughing, though, and pulled him beside her to perform an elaborate bow to the masses before taking their seats again.

"What was that for?!" Harry asked Luna. She quirked one brow at him, smiling.

"He's not for you," she said simply. "You're confused."

"I don't-- I didn't-- I--" She was _wrong_ , and more importantly, the Dursleys would kill him, just murder him in cold blood, for what Luna was insinuating.

Luna shook her head a little, a thoughtful look on her face. "That prefect over there looks sad. You should talk to her."

Harry followed her line of sight to Clearwater, whose face was blotchy. One of her friends, another prefect, had an arm protectively around the girl's shoulders. Clearwater had never looked smaller and more downtrodden.

"She barely knows me," Harry protested. Though he had wanted to talk to Clearwater about Percy, now that he had the perfect opportunity it seemed awkward, and maybe a little bit cruel.

"She could use a friend. It looks like she has some, but you can always use more friends, can't you, Harry?"

Luna looked almost anxious at that. The question seemed to elicit an answer, so Harry nodded and got up, circling the table to stand next to Clearwater. He cleared his throat, and she looked at him, sniffing a bit. "Yes, Potter?" she said. Her voice barely wavered, strong and remarkably even.

"I... uh. I wanted to ask. Um. How you're doing? I know you're friends with Weasley."

Clearwater blinked just once, face settling into a less distraught expression. "Yes, he's one of my best friends." She looked away, through the clouds that covered the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. "We were sending letters over the summer, you know. I think he...." She shook her head, jerking her chin back down to stare at Harry directly. "Did you know him very well? He mentioned you a bit, but not much."

Harry shrugged. The motion made the shadow that the candles cast jolt and flicker on the floor, lashing around his feet. "Not very much." Harry searched for the words, feeling supremely uncomfortable. He barely knew Clearwater, or Weasley. Really, he was just being nosy on the off-chance that the coma had anything to do with the Dark Arts. And that wasn't even a guarantee. "He... didn't approve of my friends, and wanted me to be a more upstanding Ravenclaw."

Clearwater laughed. "Yes, that sounds like Percy."

"I just wanted to see if you knew anything about how he was. He had the best intentions, I think. He seemed, y'know, nice." Harry shuffled uncomfortably, but Clearwater seemed to appreciate what he was trying to say.

"He liked you," she said, voice soft. "You made him think. He said... what was it? That you told him, 'You aren't defined by your magic or your house, but by the decisions you make.' He tried to be better about monitoring all the houses equally after that, not just being harsh to Slytherins. It made him a better prefect."

"I'm glad. As Percy would say, with an opener mind, he's definitely 'the right sort.'"

Clearwater laughed. "He is." She paused, frowning. "Do you... want to visit him with me? I have permission to Floo from the Infirmary on Fridays to go to St. Mungo's Hospital. I would ask Sally--" --here she nodded to her friend, who had turned to talk with the girl on her other side-- "--but she has Quidditch practice. Since you know him... I wouldn't mind company, if you have the time."

Harry blinked. The chance to see Percy Weasley in person, to see if he could get any clues about what had put him in a coma? That was a chance he wanted to take.

"All right. Thanks, Clearwater."

"Penelope," she corrected. Around them, everyone was starting to get to their feet and shuffle out. The newest prefect, a short fifth-year named Edmund Bleakwater, was gathering the first-years and directing them to one of the doors. "I guess we had best go. Thanks, Harry."

Harry nodded. As Penelope picked up her things, Harry crossed the room to the Slytherin table. Blaise was still seated, his headphones on and his head down.

Surana hissed a laugh and crept down Harry's arm, throwing herself onto Blaise's shoulders. He jolted, making both Harry and Surana laugh.

Blaise glared at him blearily and took off the headphones. "Not the kindest thing you've ever done."

"We don't aim to be kind," Harry said loftily, in his best imitation of Draco.

Blaise snorted. "You were talking to Clearwater?" he asked.

"I'm visiting Percy Weasley with her on Friday. I get to research detection charms!"

Blaise patted him on the arm, and then used Harry's wrist as a lever to pull himself out of his chair. His hand was warm against Harry's skin, almost hot, and a rich brown against Harry's freckled skin. "Yes, try to sound less pleased about research," Blaise suggested.

Harry knocked their shoulders together, amused, and picked Surana back up. She coiled herself into one of his robe pockets, settling in with a sigh. "Yes, yes, and _you_ go to bed at a _normal_ hour."

"Not going to happen."

"Well, there you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! I'm back. I don't know if anyone noticed when I added the note saying I was on hiatus until November, but since it is November now, we're back in business. I am Nanowrimoing Common Sense, so we will have weekly Sunday updates for as long as I can pull that off now.
> 
> I have a few things to touch on, so this will be a kind of long note. First, the dwarves are going to be ones from myth and legend; for the most part, they will be as uninfluenced by The Hobbit as I can manage. I was super excited about this because you know precious stones, alchemy, dwarves, etc. And now that the Flamels are here, Harry is finally going to get into alchemy! Woot! It never made sense to me that they died so soon after HP1, since why the fudge couldn't they just make another Philosopher's Stone? And also, why did they die so quickly after the stone was destroyed? And didn't they have some Elixer stored away??? Anyway.
> 
> Some of the reasons that I have been on such a long hiatus is that I have had full-time grad school and full-time work, and then I had full-time student teaching and still work on weekends. But the other reason is that for a while now, I've been dreading to see what new comments are, since I've been getting a lot of comments telling me how to write my fic, questioning all of my choices, asking me to tell them every single thing that's going to happen over the course of the story, demanding their favorite character be put in, and basically trying to corral me into doing what they want me to do. This is not only unbearably rude, but it makes me not want to write. So, please, think before you send any author this kind of comment. Also to this end, I've disabled anonymous commenting, so please log in to comment.


	13. [Year Two] Courses of Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classes begin; life is exciting when you learn, especially if you're learning with the benefit of a new and improved Quirrell and Nicolas Flamel.

The next day, the first years were taken on their tours around the winding corridors, hidden entrances, and talking portraits. The prefects were off having meetings about scheduling or some-such, and all the other Ravenclaws waited impatiently for their class schedules. Harry had woken late after a long night of studying detection charms. They were wickedly interesting little devils. Many of them required enchanted crystals, unless the wizard or witch casting was particularly strong in clairvoyance. There were a few that had been adapted for mass use, but they weren't very good and couldn't detect anything subtler than a Fanged Frisbee to the face.

The rest of the night had been taken up with reading fairy tales about the dwarves, since absolutely none of their histories were in the libraries. They were connected to the Sidhe court, though most appeared in Norse mythology rather than Irish. As a group, dwarves were secretive and jealous, known for safeguarding their mountains with dedication. They had a very strong connection with the earth, and loved gold, gems, and other precious metals as a result. However, their mentions in regular wizarding histories was more coincidental than not, and their own histories were never expounded upon. Besides that, Harry had found an ad for a troupe of dwarves that dressed up as singing telegrams for holidays.

"New schedule, Mr. Potter," said Professor Flitwick importantly, zipping down the table with the piece of paper and then back up, handing out schedules left and right. The tip of his pointed blue-grey hat quivered just below the shoulders of most of the sitting students.

Harry skimmed down the schedule and then reached into his bag, shoving past Surana in his excitement. She hissed sleepily and shifted, tying herself into a knot. Muttering an apology, he drew out one of his journals, which he had purchased on his trip to Diagon Alley with the Zabinis. Referring back and forth to the schedule, he sketched it out in the notebook, making careful notations in the margins about the books he would need to bring, questions he wanted to ask, and particular subjects he wanted to research.

"You are being particularly deranged particularly early this year," Blaise said dryly. He and Draco, their own schedules in their hands, slid onto the bench across from him. Across the room, Snape had Crabbe and Goyle both by the ear and was looming over them, his severely-cut robes flaring.

"What'd they do?" Harry asked, jerking his head at the two.

"Barely passing; need a pep talk," Draco said breezily. He wouldn't quite meet Harry's eyes, taking an apple from a bowl on the Ravenclaw table and biting in.

"We'll still have Charms and Transfiguration together," Harry said, deciding to table the issue for now. "My schedule at least is finally full for once, besides those dreadful Friday afternoons off. It looks like they were just breaking the first years in easy."

Blaise took one look at his own schedule and groaned. "So early. So many."

Harry laughed. "It's as heavy as one of the Muggle schedules now, more or less. I'm glad they took out all those breaks. I much prefer being able to study full through." He frowned. "Though I won't have as much time for research."

"You shall live, I'm sure," Draco said. "Blaise, I'm off."

He strutted importantly back to the Slytherin table now that Crabbe and Goyle had been released. "Did I do something?" Harry asked. He stared at Draco's back, worried.

 Blaise shook his head, curls flying everywhere. "No, I don't think so." He scowled. "Something's wrong, and he won't tell me."

 "Surana said he smells like blood," Harry said in an undertone.

 Blaise's eyes sharpened and, frowning, he strode back across the room. He proceeded to have a fierce, quiet argument with Draco in one corner, and did not come back over.

A little rejected, Harry continued his note-taking. Classes wouldn't officially start until tomorrow, though there would be some speeches and beginning-of-year conferences. There was no harm getting a jump on everything he had to do, however. The first day of classes would be a Thursday, which was his longest week day, as he would have Astronomy at midnight then. Fortunately, he had the first period free both Thursday and Friday, which would definitely help matters. His first class on Thursday would be Defense Against the Dark Arts, with the new and improved Quirrell.

There was a slam and Harry looked up to see Draco shove his way out of the Great Hall, Blaise left fuming behind him.

Blaise walked back over after a moment, sitting down in a heap next to Harry."Blood magic," he said tightly, "and not the safe, druidic kind, of course. The Malfoy family has been known for hundreds of years for practicing a French blood magic which is particularly unwise, but I thought Draco was cognizant of how extremely unwise it is."

"But why?" Harry asked plaintively.

"He refuses to say." Blaise shook his head. "I don't suppose you're able to contact that house elf? We could question him, see what, exactly, was happening in the Malfoy house this summer."

"Not that I know of."

The other boy sighed, slumping even further. "Fine. Let's head to the library, then."

Harry brightened. "I've been waiting for you to say that."

"I strongly suspected that you were."

 

* * *

 

The last day before the official start of classes was a blur. Harry and Blaise brought a load of books to the Night Room, the abandoned sitting room that the boys had taken over the previous year. They read, or rather, Harry did, and Blaise skimmed aggressively and listened to music.

The evening led to Harry watching a rousing game of chess between Morag MacDougal and Anthony Goldstein while Morag and Lisa Turpin arguing the finer points of swordplay, a subject which Lisa apparently had studied in detail. Luna had taken a seat at his side, quiet and watchful as the second-years discussed their classes.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked. He was getting up to take a turn at the chess table when he noticed Luna's silence.

"I'll be fine," Luna said, smiling dreamily. Harry didn't realise at the time that she had not given him a real answer.

* * *

Defense Against the Dark Arts first thing in the morning was probably not the best idea, Harry decided as he entered the classroom the next day. Harry's classmates were all tired from the night before, so hopefully the class would be theory-heavy this first day.

"Welcome back, second years," Quirrell said, leaning against his desk in the front of the room. His smile, dark and cruel, looked like the smile Harry had seen once on a Greek statue. The statue had been of a Greek soldier, contorting in extreme pain around the spear thrust within his chest. "Please take your seats. They have been assigned, and you will find your name spelled upon them."

Harry looked up and down the aisles for a moment on the Ravenclaw side, but there was no name in glittering golden spell-scroll. Many Ravenclaws had a similar reaction, looking to Quirrell for a question, but he was paging through a book.

Finally, Anthony headed over to the Hufflepuff side of the room to take his own seat. Harry and one or two of the other Ravenclaws followed. Harry sat beside the curly-haired Justin Finch-Fletchley. Across the aisle from them was Hannah Abbott, who was humming nervously to herself, red-cheeked next to Michael Corner.

"Thank you," Quirrell said coldly. He rose to his full height and stood before them. Without the turban and the strangely-cut robes, he seemed taller, more imposing, and far more dangerous. "Welcome back to your second year at Hogwarts. Your previous year, you will soon find, was far easier than this one shall be. We will be studying in depth a number of dangerous practices, not least the circles of summoning and the theory of the invocation of spirits in the purposes of defense, which is my specialty. Professor Snape would tell you that the foolish wand-waving is not present in his classroom, but I will tell you that the wand-waving will be very much present in _my_ classroom, at least, this year.

"Please turn to your neighbor. This will be your partner until the holidays. The houses have been separated for far too long." There, at least, was a sentiment that Harry could agree with. "Introduce yourself, if you haven't already. It came to my attention last year that some of the students don't even know all the names to their classmates in other houses, which is a fact we are going to be seeking to rectify this year."

Finch-Fletchley looked at Harry guardedly. "Potter," he greeted. He had one of the poshest accents Harry had ever heard. Not the same kind of posh as Draco, who sounded gracious even when he was insulting you, but a snotty, upper-class Muggle posh that screamed "public school!" and "Berkshire!" to Harry. The Eton boys had passed through Surrey on occasion, since Eton was only a half hour away from Little Whinging if the traffic wasn't backed up on the M25. They had somehow always been quite friendly with Dudley.

"Finch-Fletchley," Harry said, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Both of them turned back to Quirrell expectantly and proceeded to ignore one another entirely.

"Well after those riveting introductions," Quirrell drawled, "I can see that we're going to have a fantastic time with our new partners. Today we shall be selecting books for book groups, with the intent of having an independent research project completed by the end of term. Our new partner is also our research partner. Questions?"

"Yeah," Zacharias Smith drawled out from the back. "What happened to you this summer?"

The class instantly burst into tittering, nervous laughter. Professor Quirrell just raised an eyebrow coolly. "A great many things. At the end of last year, I retrieved a book from an acquaintance and re-gifted it in turn, which led to this summer, where I made some friends, played a few rousing games of wizarding chess with close companion, and lifted a curse. And your summer, Mr. Smith? How was that?"

Zacharias flushed darkly and mumbled something.

"While I pass out some references to give your pair some structure, confer with your partner about the kind of project you might want to begin," Quirrell said smoothly.

Finch-Fletchley instantly turned to Harry, scowling a little. "You may be a Ravenclaw, but don't expect that I'm going to want some complicated research project unless you plan to do the majority of the work yourself. I want something simple and straightforward."

Harry shot him an unimpressed look. "I guess I'll be doing the majority of the work then, because I won't do something dull."

"Glad that's settled, then," Finch-Fletchley said, and turned away.

Oh, it was shaping up to be a wonderful year already.

 

* * *

 

Between Defense and History of Magic, Harry had Potions and then lunch-- and the less said of Potions was probably the better. Professor Snape was different, though, no longer endlessly needling Harry, but instead ignoring him entirely. Every so often, Harry would catch the professor's eyes on him, unblinking and unreadable. Unfortunately, he was not paying as much attention in Potions as he should have, for the next class he was to go to was History of Magic.

Unlike Professor Flitwick, who more often than not stood on a box, Professor Flamel stood with his feet planted on the ground and his arms firm. He watched silently as the students filed in and took their seats, Harry sitting between Draco and Blaise out of habit. Harry could feel Professor Flamel's eyes track him. Blaise fidgeted with his Sing-spinner, trying to pretend that he wasn't horribly interested in the dwarf in front of them, but Harry made no such attempt. He stared openly, curiously, and got out his list of questions and notes-- just in case.

"History," said Professor Flamel, once they had all arrived, "is meant to be lived. Every moment is history. Every moment is a story. I have lived through many of these moments as a result of my extreme age."

Theodore Nott's hand shot up. "Due to you being a dwarf?" the boy asked, shoving his glasses eagerly up his thin nose.

Flamel gave him a miniscule smile. "No, due to me creating the Philosopher's Stone." The Pureblood students burst into exited whispers, but the others mostly looked at him, confused. "The Philosopher's Stone is an object, a stone, as red as the blood used to create it. It is made through the highest of alchemies, the truest and greatest work that the world will ever see. Unfortunately, the Stone was stolen from me last year after the Gringotts break-in."

The room filled with mutters again, including Harry poking Blaise repeatedly and saying, "I knew it! Didn't I tell you, I knew it!"

"Settle." Professor Flamel's voice boomed out, cracking like a fissure through the earth, and the collected Ravenclaws and Slytherins fell instantly quiet. "I am not a patient dwarf. You will learn that quite quickly. Since I am new to you and you to me, I will tell you a number of thintgs about myself. I am a Taurus, and will have been married to Perenelle for six hundred and twenty-six years next Tuesday. All dwarfs have a craft, and mine is alchemy, but this year, I will be teaching you History of Magic instead." He snorted, picking up one of their textbooks gingerly, as if it was rotten. "You sorely need me."

"I really wouldn't mind learning alchemy, actually," Draco suggested, leaning back in his chair.

Squinting suspiciously at him, Flamel huffed a laugh. "Abraxas Malfoy's son, aren't you? No, no-- he would be your grandfather at this point. Or is that great-grandfather? Time does slip by for humans."

"My grandfather, sir," said Draco, voice edging back into respect at the mention of his family. He sat all four feet of chair back down and lifted his chin. "I only met him once or twice when I was younger."

"A cruel man," Flamel said, without judgment. "Very powerful, very bright. But cruel. As long as you have his power and intelligence, we will get along fine.

"Professor Binns did his dissertation on the goblin wars, and thus for decades, that's all that he has taught, which has led to three generations of wizards who don't know any history besides the goblin wars, if they even bothered listening to him.

"This year, we will be learning every kind of history. We will be learning about the loss of the Grey Sword and the death of Camelot; about the Three Lords who bled promises to the earth and whose rule led to the first of the fae leaving this plane; about the War of Vipers that led to the fracturing of the Wizarding Country of England in the 900s, and the hunt for the Golden Hart that obsessed wizards for the next two hundred years after. And then, maybe, we will be somewhere near ready to talk about the first of the goblin wars, but I sincerely doubt it."

Surana was laughing away at Harry, who was getting increasingly excited and had stopped breathing entirely.

"Breathing is necessary for wizardssss, Speaker," she said, her tongue flickering out against Harry's ear. She rested her head against his collar for a moment, her presence catching Flamel's eye and causing him to squint over at them.

"Is that a snake, child?"

Harry nodded, rubbing his fingers over the spine of his book nervously. He looked at Blaise next to him, who had gone very still and was staring at Professor Flamel guardedly. "Yes. Her name is Surana."

"Surana." Professor Flamel spoke the word with something approaching the sibilance of a snake. "Hm."

The professor continued the lesson, presenting the students with an outline of the course of study that they would be following, taking roll, and making every one of them share something about their personal history. Almost every time, he was able to tie back the wizarding families to some event in history, or the Muggleborn names to a host of facts about Muggles with similar names who had been important in the past.

As he was walking out, heading to his very first session of Arithmancy with the girls (which he was pleased to note was replacing more flying lessons and wizarding sports for the rest of the second years), Harry was stopped by Flamel's brusque, "Stay a moment, if you would, Lord Griffon."

Harry frowned. He hadn't been called Lord Griffon by anyone other than Draco and Blaise, and not in quite some time. He stopped at the door and Blaise stopped too, facing the professor with him as Draco sailed off, yelling something at the Gryffindor Neville Longbottom down the hallway.

"Yes, Professor?" Harry asked. Surana poked her head out again, noticing the sudden tenseness in his body.

Flamel nodded his hairy head at the snake and asked, "You understand her, Potter?"

Harry thought, for all of a moment, about lying and claiming not to be a Parselmouth. However, since Flamel obviously could tell the truth of the matter, such a thing would hardly be sensible, so instead said, "Yes. I met her just before my eleventh birthday. On my cousin Dudley's birthday, in fact. She's been with me since."

"Powerful Grey magic that is," Flamel said approvingly.

"Quite funny how most claim it's Dark," Blaise said, "since it is so powerfully identified with Salazar Slytherin."

Flamel's lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. "And whoever said that Slytherin was a Dark Lord was so full of coal and rubble that he didn't know his blasted-up from his blessed-down."

"To be honest, most of the claims that Salazar Slytherin was a Dark Lord seems like a sheer supposition," Harry said, trying to remember the books he had read this summer and last. "The facts are that there was War of Vipers, but whether it was led by Slytherin at that point or whether he had died previously is very unclear, since he is never officially mentioned again after disappearing from Hogwarts following his fight with Godric Gryffindor. Several sources claim that this was due to Slytherin wanting Muggleborn students to be disallowed from attending the school, since the Muggles had been torturing and killing any witches and wizards they could find ever since the Fall of Camelot. _I_ think that it would be wise to talk to the Sorting Hat, though, since one source says that their fight was actually a minor one over whether or not the High Elves would be allowed to Slytherin's daughter's Naming, Slytherin for and Gryffindor against. I suspect that one to be true, and naturally that changes several things."

As it always did at this point in Harry's monologue, Blaise's eyes were glazed over. Flamel, though, was looking at the young wizard and nodding along.

"Quite right, young Lord Griffon." He paused. "I heard Hogwarts greeted you as you entered."

"There was a sound as Mandy, Padma, and I came in, but I don't know if I would say 'greeted,' really."

"You are One to Watch, Lord Griffon, and don't think I don't notice," said Flamel, pointing one squarish, heavy finger at him. "Now carry on, and continue using your brain."

Harry laughed. "I don't think I could stop even if I tried."

"You would be surprised how many can," Flamel said, and then he let them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that I find tremendously odd about the HP books is that JK has them begin classes the very day after they step off the train. Having now student taught in a middle school, I wonder if she realizes that no school could possibly run without due conferences, assemblies, convocations, and other such things to orient students. And think of those poor first years! How would they be able to handle being dropped in a new, magical school, and expected to land on their feet? I have ruthlessly changed this from canon. A number of the scenes with classes have received the benefit of my own time in schools; I enjoyed writing them probably more than I should.
> 
> Justin Finch-Fletchley is not his gregarious self from HP2 because he is not as comfortable initially with a Ravenclaw, snake-toting, Slytherin-befriending Harry Potter. Also, I could see an interesting class thing happening between him and Harry if I wanted it to, considering he said his name was down for Eton in HP2.


	14. [Year Two] Detecting and Suspecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Penelope visit Percy in the hospital, where Harry finds a rather interesting object. Draco makes an unfortunate choice.

* * *

 

Classes for the first couple weeks were just beginning to pick up steam. Clearwater skipped visiting Percy the first Friday, to give them both a chance to focus on classes, but the next Friday was finally upon them. Harry was so nervous that he found himself staying up late, practicing detecting charms after Astronomy on Thursday. It reminded him of being at the Dursleys, up late in the cupboard under the stairs with a book pressed to his open on his pillow, Surana listening to him read aloud and laughing when his jab was less a jab and more of a swish and flick. He finally fell asleep and woke early on Friday, arms tight around the book of charms and Surana having disappeared into the walls to hunt some mice.

Blearily, Harry stumbled into the Ravenclaw common room that morning before anyone else was even awake for breakfast. The house elves, blessed beings that they were, started serving the meal at 6AM, however, for which Harry was eternally grateful. Still clutching his book, Harry descended the stairs from the boys' dormitory to the common room door when he saw a familiar blonde head. Luna was hunched over one of the small writing desks in the third-floor common area of the tower, trying to wipe ink off of her Transfigurations textbook. She was dipping a wet rag repeatedly into a very tall cup of water and scrubbing. When she saw Harry watching, she smiled. She had black ink on her cheek and on the ends of some of her hair. "I don't know the charm for Vanishing yet-- I don't suppose you do?"

"It's a late fourth year or early fifth year spell," Harry explained, leaving the stairs and crossing the room to stand next to her.

She blinked at him. "So do you know it?"

Harry leaned against the arm of her chair. "I can try. I know the incantation and the wand movements, but I haven't tried it yet. We just run the risk of vanishing the book itself, not just the ink."

"I won't be able to read it the way it is anyway, so we may as well see if it works."

Luna offered him the book, which he took and set down on the desktop with a wet plop. He retrieved his wand from his robes' pocket and stabbed it sharply in the direction of the book. " _Evanesco!_ " he demanded. The ink vanished, but so did a good half of the book.

"Bloody hell."

Luna giggled. "Oh, good try, Harry! With a little more practice, you'll have it a good three years early! That could come in handy. I'll see if Daddy can send me a new one."

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "You wanna borrow my Transfigurations book from last year in the meantime?"

"That would be wonderful," Luna said cheerfully. "Now if you'll excuse me, I really should shower before the other girls get up. It is ever so much easier when I shower first. Thanks again, Harry!"

 

* * *

 

Until third year, when elective courses would begin, most students had many free periods throughout their days at Hogwarts as a way to ease the Muggleborn students into Hogwarts life and give everyone a chance to cope with the punishing workload. Even Harry, Padma, and Mandy continued to have Friday afternoons off from classes, despite having fewer free periods than the rest of their year. Because of this, Penelope was able to meet Harry in the medical wing after lunch, where Harry was standing next to a beady-eyed Madam Pomfrey. Madam Pomfrey, the Mediwitch in charge of the students' health at Hogwarts, was muttering grim things about how short Harry was and how he really needed some nutritional charms post-haste. She looked entirely unlike a Muggle nurse, with two belts about her waist that had a number of tiny glass vials of potions clipped in, and a gem sparkling from a chain that rested just on her forehead. The arms of her robes were bound up with dark green sashes to keep them out of her work, much like Professor Snape did when brewing potions. However, as her one similarity to a Muggle nurse, she wore a pair of trainers rather than dragon-hide or leather shoes, like the rest of the teachers tended to do. Besides this, she looked more or less like Harry imagined a dragon-tamer might look.

Right as she was beginning to finger her wand and Harry was beginning to consider fleeing for his life, Penelope finally arrived. Her curly wheat blonde hair was brushed into a high ponytail and instead of her school robes, she was wearing a neat set of mint green robes with the hint of a sturdy pink petticoat beneath, embroidered around the edges with ivy. She was carrying a bouquet of valerian flowers, daisies, and lilacs.

"Good," Madam Pomfrey said, nodding at the flowers. "Fine flowers for healing and good health."

"Thank you," Penelope said, a little shyly. "I consulted with Professor Sprout."

"The Floo's just through my office door. Make sure you take care of Harry here." Madam Pomfrey gave Harry another look, fingering the vials at her belt meaningfully. Wisely taking note of this look, Penelope nodded. She shuffled her bouquet into one hand and grasped Harry by the shoulder, pulling him along quickly into Madam Pomfrey's office.

"I was worried she was going to force-feed you something vile," Penelope admitted in an undertone to Harry as she searched around for the pot of Floo powder.

"I think she thought I was unnaturally short," said Harry, a bit crossly. He may have been short, but really, that was just adding insult to injury.

"She means well, really." Penelope found the pot and approached the fireplace. "I spent a fair amount of time in here in my early years-- had dreadful spots, you know, and Madam Pomfrey is good at helping the girls out with that, since she doesn't want us trying to deal with it ourselves and turning our  noses inside out in the process. I was very shy when I was young, could barely ask her to help, but she knew right what to do and made me quite comfortable. You first?"

Harry grimaced and took the pot. He hated Floo travel. "What's the destination?"

"St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Fourth Floor, but you just need to say St. Mungo's Hospital, and we should get there fine."

"Grand." Harry threw a pinch of powder into the flames, which blazed to life. "St. Mungo's Hospital!"

The flames engulfed him. With ash rushing past his ears and the crackle of flames against his hands, Harry sped through the chimneys of wizards everywhere from Scotland to London until he finally popped out in the lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The lobby was very shabby, with loads of fragile-looking wooden chairs, and packed with moaning witches, wizards, hags, sorcerers, and beldames, who had a variety of deformities, gaping wounds, and missing limbs. Harry could barely look at them, but fortunately barely two seconds later, out came Penelope. She took a stiff brush out of one robe pocket and began brushing them both off quite firmly. Harry was quite glad Surana had stayed with Blaise, as she would have protested loudly at this.

"All right there, Harry?" she asked, giving herself one last swipe to her shoulder before dropping the brush into one pocket.

"Yes, the Floo just makes me a touch queasy," Harry said.

The two proceeded past some green-clad Healers to the nearest staircase and made their way up what felt like endless flights of stairs. Harry was out of breath by the time they made it to the fourth floor, but Penelope was barely winded.

"How can you not be tired?!" he asked.

"I was Quidditch team last year, but it got to be too much with my studies and prefect duties, so I've given up my spot this year. I was a fantastic Beater. You must really not pay attention to Quidditch to not to know that." She flashed a smile at him and approached the desk in the front of the room. There was a lovely young witch there, her blonde hair pinned up into curls and her lime green robes edged in redwork. "I'm looking for Percy Weasley?"

The witch looked through the numerous clipboards and charts on her desk before finally snagging a red one. "Yes, Weasley… room 431, just down the hall on your left. Please sign in here. Sad case, Mr. Weasley. His mum's here every day, crying away. If you have any concerns, make sure you just ring the little silver bell and a mediwitch will come right in."

"Thank you," said Penelope, signing her name with a flourish. She put a heart after the last letter of her name, like she was a ten-year-old Muggle girl but somehow more precise. Harry signed after her and off they went, Penelope walking with purpose, her flowers only vaguely wilted from the Floo trip.

Penelope opened the door, but rocked back a bit when she did, as if she wasn't quite sure if she should continue forward. Percy was on a bed in the center of the room. His hair was lovingly brushed, as neat as ever, if longer than normal. His face was stark white, the freckles standing out like a dusting of tiny bruises. Every single vein was visible, blue under his thin skin.

"I've seen him before," Penelope admitted quietly, stepping forward to place the flowers in the vase on Percy's bedside table, "but it never fails to shock."

Harry didn't reply. Percy was just so pale. There were books on his bedside table beside the flowers, but clearly he couldn't read them. There was no ink from note-taking on his hands. The look on his face was blank, not supercilious and arrogant. He looked dead.

"Harry, he's alive. It's okay."

Harry shook himself, trying to snap out of it. "Are you… sure?"

She smiled, seating herself in one of the chair. She reached over, lacing Percy's thin, long hand in her own. He had the fingers of a pianist, Aunt Petunia would have said. She had desperately wanted Dudley to have lessons, but of course, he had smashed the keys a few times before throwing a tantrum, and then the lessons stopped.

Harry sat down beside her, all ideas of casting detecting charms fleeing his brain. St. Mungo's would have cast them all anyway; he had only really had time to learn the more common ones, after all. "What do they think is wrong with him?"

Penelope shook her head. "They aren't sure. His mother said that he had been studying up late at night, even later than him trying to hide his letters to me from his siblings would warrant. One morning, he didn't come down for breakfast. They found him in this coma, his books still open. They think maybe a spell or a curse, something he read in a book maybe? There are still some books possessed by demons even nowadays, but where he would have gotten such a thing…. I'm going to talk to him, so don't think I'm strange. The Healers say he might still be awake and aware, that this might help."

Silently, Harry sat by Percy's side while Penelope told Percy all about classes. She told him about everything they were studying, about the dwarves, about some of their mutual friends. When finally they were about to leave, she leaned down to kiss him on his forehead, her tawny curls falling in his face. Harry turned away to give them privacy and lifted up the books on the bedside table. The one on top was a children's book, _Battle-Mages of Avalon_. It was lovingly cared-for, but even so, was worn at the edges and the binding was peeling up at the corners. Below was a thin book, a bit tattered and bound in leather. It looked like a diary of some sort. Harry flipped through it, but saw nothing but blank pages. Of course, Percy would have been clever enough to hide his words.

Harry glanced over at Penelope, who was still occupied, and slipped the diary into his pockets.

"Until next week," Penelope said.

"Until next week," said Harry, and they departed.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Harry was sequestered in his bed, blue drapes drawn, reading to Surana and Whisper. Surana was curled around one of the bedposts, her green-grey scales writhing as Harry read to her from _The Golden Ships_ , one of the novels Harry had gotten from the bookstore that summer. On the pillow, the tiny Delicana, Whisper, was biting his own tail. He listened avidly and quaked every time they got to an exciting part, though his small intellect was barely able to comprehend it.

"Carowan could feel the yearning like a song in her veins. Her family had long since departed on the ship to sail for Elphyne, but she remained. Someone had to fight against the Dark Elves and the Deep Elves; someone had to protect this beautiful land from the armies of the Vipers, who sought to hard to wreck it. She would have to be brave, and silent, and hidden, but her clan would stay and wait for when the Three Kings rose again. And then, perhaps, she could sail home."

Harry closed the book. Surana sighed, dropping her head. "Whyever someone would want to ssssail on _water_ is beyond me," she said. "But it would be sssso entertaining to have an elf as a companion."

"Well, you're stuck with me, aren't you?"

"I mean no offense, Speaker. Though if your earssss were pointed, I wouldn't _object_." Harry stuck his tongue out at her. Putting the completed book the floor beside his bed, his hand bumped into the book he had stolen from Percy Weasley's room. He picked it up and flipped through it again. He grabbed his wand.

" _Specialis Revelio,_ " he attempted. Nothing happened. " _Hominis Revelo_?" he tried. Still nothing. " _Aperecium._ " There was not a twitch from the notebook, not a quiver. And he would have noticed if the book was possessed by the spirit of a ghost, since he had added that enchantment when he was at Diagon Alley. Oh well. He would keep the book and research more spells.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday, Penelope woke Harry up frighteningly early. The other second-year boys grumbled and Terry screeched, grabbing his blankets about him like a Victorian maiden. None of this even registered to Harry, who was so overtired from late Astronomy lessons on Thursday and getting up early on Friday that he could barely even comprehend the sight of Penelope's round, flushed face.

"Get up, Harry," she demanded, shaking his shoulder one more time, "and get dressed. I'll wait for you in the Common Room."

She stalked out of the room instead. Harry fell out of bed, to Surana and Whisper's great displeasure. Michael threw a pillow at his head, and soon every other boy followed him, all with great aim.

"You're all awful," Harry accused, staggering to his feet. He threw his robes on over his pajamas and walked out the door. Instead of using the staircase, he nearly fell over the railing instead; it would have been more expedient, but the rewards were not worth the broken bones. He met Penelope at the lowest-floor common room, where she waited impatiently.

"We," she declared, "are going to watch the Quidditch practices this morning. I don't want you brooding about Percy's state and overthinking it. He will get better. We don't need to worry about the how."

She pulled him along, protesting, out of the common room and through the halls. The sun was barely rising in the sky and everything was still cold and grey, from the thin slivers that appeared through the small, defensible windows of the castle. Penelope eventually let him go and strode on ahead, her chin high and her shoulders back. She was a very confident girl, Harry noticed, more so than he had ever noticed before. As a prefect whose job was to watch over the first years, as she and Edward Grant had been last year, she had been lenient, but stern. Grief had made her have dignity beyond her age. Harry could picture her as the heroine of a Jane Austen novel, made more powerful by her sorrow.

They finally burst into the open air. It smelled like green grass and coming rain.

"Do we have to go to the Quidditch pitch? I don't even like Quidditch." Harry was trying very hard not to whine, but he was tired, and the only books he had in his pockets were book he had stolen from Percy and _The Golden Ships_ , which he had already finished. He was cold, and his snakes were warm and snug in bed, and he had really wanted to get started on his Arithmancy homework. He supposed to be forming grids with invisible numbers, and use this as the basis for a protection circle. He did not want to be watching _Quidditch_.

"Quidditch is a fantastic sport. It keeps the brain sharp. It requires split-second thinking, smart decisions, and strategic planning. If you watch Quidditch, really watch it, your brain is stimulated into thinking things through, from the beginning of a game to the end. Not to mention the math that goes into trying to figure out how many points the different teams need to score to overset the points that a Seeker gets just by managing to catch one flying golden ball. Which, yes, can be tremendously difficult, but still."

They had reached the stands now, and Penelope led them up a couple of flights before settling them down. On the other end was Hermione Granger, looking wan, with her head buried in a book. The Gryffindor team was just trudging in, but the captain stopped dead at the sight of them.

"No. No, no no. Clearwater, I'll not have you spying for the Ravenclaw team. We've already had enough trouble with the Slytherins."

Penelope snorted. "I'm a prefect, Wood, and I'm no longer on the team. I just want to watch the beaters. Fred and George do some great work. And Harry here hates Quidditch-- it's our duty to change his mind."

Wood looked torn. "Well… I mean, that is our duty… oh bloody hell, not again."

Wood stalked over to the Slytherin team, who was now approaching the pitch with their brooms slung over their shoulders. Harry didn't know a thing about brooms or Quidditch, but even he recognized the shiny gold lettering on the brooms: Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, the hottest new brooms on the market.

"How haven't you worked out the schedule yet?" Wood demanded. "We have permission to be here now. Take your new seeker and practice somewhere else." Harry then managed to catch sight, beyond Marcus Flint's bulk, of Draco's blonde hair. He was sneering at Wood, his face twisted into an ugly expression.

"We can both be here, Wood," he said. "You've already got a Ravenclaw and a Mudblood watching you-- why not Slytherins? At least we'll add some class."

Immediately, there was a roar from the Gryffindor team. The Weasley twins were trying to fight their way past Flint to jump Draco; one of the Chasers went stark white and said in an offended tone, " _How dare you!_ "

It took a moment for Wood to get his team under control again. Meanwhile, Harry jumped down from the stands, pushing through the Gryffindor team to face the Slytherins.

" _Draco_." Harry licked his lips and lifted his chin, trying to gather his thoughts. They were spinning unhappily; he felt cold, distant, like the bottom had fallen out of his stomach, but he couldn't keep himself from talking, not about this. Draco suddenly looked a little nervous. Harry wasn't sure what the expression on his face was like. "Apologise to Granger, right now."

"I don't have to do what you say," Draco said, turning his nose up.

Harry swallowed hard. "If 'we're friends' isn't enough, and 'you shouldn't call people such horrible, supremist names,' isn't enough, then maybe this will be: if necessary, I can owl your mother and Madam Zabini both and tell her what you just said, in public, to a girl who didn't even say a word to you. And they will both send you letters telling you how _unfortunate_ and _ill-advised_ what you just did was. So apologise. Now."

Draco visibly struggled, face flushed with anger and his shoulders tense, before he finally turned to a tense Granger. Affecting a bow, he said with an over-exaggerated tone of obsequience, "So many apologies, Granger."

Harry snorted at the foolishness of that, and then turned his back, beginning to cross back over to Granger. The Gryffindor team parted around him, but the twin red-heads both slapped their hands on his shoulders, saying, "Good going, Potter!" at the same time, and the three Chasers all laughed. One of them ruffled his hair before he finally managed to break past them. He sat beside Granger as the Slytherins and Gryffindors continued to squabble. "Are you all right, Granger?" he asked in an undertone.

She fought to smile. She had very large front teeth, and her hair was a dreadful mess, but the book in her hands looked incredibly interesting. "I think so. It's not the first time. He mutters it in the halls at me sometimes, though I think originally it was just to bother Ron. It never fails to bother me, though I know it shouldn't."

"I'm sorry, for him." Harry looked out over the fields. Draco and the Slytherin team were storming away.

Hermione shrugged, ducking her head shyly. "Don't apologize for him. You told him he was wrong-- that was more than what most people will do."

Penelope got back up in the stands with them, frowning heavily at the backs of the Slytherins. "I didn't used to think that Percy was right about them, but they've been obnoxious this year. Malfoy wasn't anywhere near this bad before. Did something happen with him, Harry?"

"Something," Harry agreed, troubled.

 

* * *

 

When they headed back to the Ravenclaw common room, Harry stopped at the third floor of the tower to take a closer look at the diary he still had in his pocket. The area around the writing desks was always quiet this time of day. Penelope parted with him on the second floor, cheeks red with the cold air outside and from all of her hoarse shouting at the beaters, Fred and George Weasley. She had fairly vehement opinions about their technique at swinging their bats, and had not been afraid to express them. He sat at one of the writing desks and began flipping through the pages. Each one was crisp and white, completely free of any noticeable markings or poorly-kept secrets that would be discernible at a quick glance.

Harry set the book aside, but quickly realised that he had set it in a large puddle of ink, probably still leftover from Luna's accident the previous day and so thick that it hadn't yet dried. He snatched the book out of the ink, blowing on it rapidly.

Under his eyes, the ink absorbed into the pages and leather binding.

"What?" he muttered under his breath. He took the book and darted up the staircases to the second-year boys' dormitory. Most of the boys were already at breakfast in the Great Hall, so he wasn't bothered during his mad dash to his book bag. He grabbed a quill and, dipping it in the ink, wrote on the first page of the diary: _Hello?_

The ink was slowly absorbed. As it moved, Harry noticed that on the page facing the ink was a title page, like many diaries had, which said "This diary belongs to… T.M. Riddle."

The ink did not reappear, and nothing further happened.

 _Hello, my name is Harry Potter,_ Harry tried again.

Besides absorbing the ink, the diary did not react, so, sighing, Harry gave it up and slipped the diary back into his pocket. He would have to try something else. Curiouser and curiouser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breakout star of this chapter was clearly Penelope, but I am also exceedingly fond of Madam Pomfrey. Similar to when I gave Madam Pince a floating desk, no moment could have been more gleeful for me than when I envisioned Pomfrey with a billion vials of potions, a scowl, and a pair of sensible trainers (some things about nurses will always be true). 
> 
> I swear that every chapter I've written lately and which will be upcoming for you has been longer than usual, but I'm sure no one will be complaining.


	15. [Year Two] Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry dreamed. Sometimes he even knew it was a dream. Sometimes he could remember a bit of it, but most of the time, they were just dreams... weren't they?

* * *

_It was a large house with a French garden that spiraled around it. The house was like the spoke of a top or the center of a cyclone. The construction of it all made the snake dizzy. She crept through the garden on her belly, sliding over loose gravel, moss, and thin, bright green blades of grass. It was a cool night, far too cold against her scales. She wanted time to bask in the sunshine and more house elves to eat, but Master had told her that she had to be patient and to wait. The house elves all belonged to the Ice Man, and she was not allowed to eat his servants._

_She made her way past the large, heavy front door that was left so conveniently open for her and into the wide hall. It was almost more freeing and open in here than it was in the garden, which seemed dreadfully close and didn't have as many rabbits as she would have liked. It was much warmer in here, though, a constant, happy warmth against her scales. She liked Wiltshire much better than she liked Albania._

_"And how are the boy's studies going?" It was her master's voice, smooth and dark like the blood that had flowed into her mouth from her very first bite into a human child before she had swallowed it whole, layered with that subtle, resonating power he had. It made him sound infinitely more majestic, more like one of her kind by far._

_"Well enough, though he's reluctant," said the Ice Man. "His mother suspects, and does not approve, but she is weak."_

_"She is from a good family and bright in her own way. I'm sure she will come around to the right point of view, or can be made to come around," said her master. She advanced rapidly down the hall, ever closer to him. "Has he sent you any reports yet?"_

_"No, no. He says the Potter boy has found new friends this year and isn't spending as much time with the Slytherins._

_The snake shoved her head past the study door and--_

Harry awoke and stared at the blue canopies around his bed. Both of his snakes were curled up tight against him, tucked deep into the bedclothes but still freezing in the late October chill that had filled the castle of late. It would be Halloween soon, and the castle was all in a buzz. Third years and over were planning their Hogsmeade weekends, scheduling dates with their boyfriends and girlfriends, and discussing how they planned to sneak into the Hog's Head Pub. Harry didn't care about any of that, of course. He was quite full up, thank you, with his studies.

Arithmancy was going well, and he, Padma, and Mandy did their homework together during their study period at the end of the day. After, he would go to the Night Room with Blaise and Surana would make her way back to him, since she usually spent some of each day watching Quirrell. Quirrell continued to be strange and mildly frightening, but his classes were wicked entertaining and full of information. Everything was going well, actually, and Professor Snape actually told him that his work was adequate the day before--

_Had Harry been dreaming?_

Harry sat bolt upright, dislodging both snakes, and threw back the drapes. He received a pillow in the mouth for his trouble.

"Oi," said Terry. His dark hair was standing straight up on his head; he had a second pillow in his hands, as if he was prepared to toss another at Harry if the first one had missed. "Why does it always have to be drama with you? Can't just wake up like a normal person, but have to fling things about instead."

"Oh hush it," Harry said crossly. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"So do I," Terry said. He set the pillow back down on his bed. "I'm pants at Transfigurations and we have a test." He was struggling a sweater over his _subfusc_ , and then bungling a set of robes over that. The other boys were asleep, since Michael would always sleep until the last possible moment, and Anthony woke deliberately and carefully, and only when he absolutely intended to do so.

Come to think of it, if Michael was using blood magic, he might have new marks soon, for Samhain. Harry would have to keep an eye out, try to research any symbols he saw.

"You could study with me and Blaise," Harry offered, without much hope.

Terry snorted. "That'd be the day. Me and a Slytherin, studying together. What would my mum say? No, but thanks, Harry."  
Harry reached down and let Whisper crawl up his sleeve, forming a band around his arm. The small snake stayed tight to him as he changed his clothes rapidly, and then he finally reached for Surana, who encircled his neck. Whisper was letting out a constant hiss of "cold cold cold" that Surana was too poised to echo, though she was curled around Harry as close as she could be.

Dressed, Harry met Blaise in the Great Hall. The other boy was frowning heavily into thin air, his arms crossed over his chest and a perturbed expression on his face.

"All right?" Harry asked.

Blaise shook his head. He had been distant so far this year, splitting his time between Harry and Draco. Draco was refusing to meet with Harry at all ever since the Quidditch incident, and had formed new friendships with the team, friendships full of sneering laughter and cruel jeers at any student different from them. He reminded Harry of Dudley, as he never had before: cruel, short-sighted, and intolerant.

"All right." Harry pulled him down to sit at the Ravenclaw table, and they sat, shoulder to shoulder. "Surana says that Professor Quirrell has been leaving every other night or so, heading into Hogsmeade and then impossible to find from there. If Quirrell did steal the Philosopher's Stone for the Dark Lord, it's impossible for just the stone to create an entire body-- the Stone's powers are limited to transmuting poorly made metal into gold and making the elixir of life, not creating new life. So though the elixir would have been one component to making a new body, supposing he was a spirit, he would have still needed an extra boost. Is Quirrell working on that, I wonder? If the Dark Lord was back, truly back, wouldn't we have heard something by now? And how did the Dark Lord communicate with Quirrell to begin with, really?"

Blaise grunted a little, shoving his bacon around his plate.

"Percy is still the same. I still have no idea what is going on with him, but that diary of his that I took is still… strange. But almost like strange in a past tense. Like the strange was once there, but has left."

The Flamels entered the room, thumping themselves down at the high table and eagerly quaffing coffee in great amounts. It spilled into their beards and down their throats, but since this was hardly new to Harry anymore, he looked away quickly enough.

"Halloween tonight," Harry tried again. "And most of the castle will be gone to Hogsmeade today. Want to take a walk by the lake? I've heard that the pumpkins that Hagrid has been growing are gigantic, even bigger than his house."

"All right," Blaise said.

Harry sighed. He doubted that Blaise would even remember his promise; for a year that had such a promising beginning, it was not shaping up very well, not shaping up at all.

* * *

Harry ended up taking the walk alone. The breeze off the lake was horribly cold, colder than elsewhere on the grounds. It chapped Harry's cheeks and made his hair even more of a mess than usual, sending his hair lashing into his eyes. The greyish tentacles of the giant squid rose and splashed back down inside the water, making the waters of the lake choppy and spraying Harry in a fine mist. Frowning at what little of the squid he could see, Harry finally headed back to the castle with his robes all in disarray and covered with fallen leaves. For once, his brain was peaceful, not whirling with opinions, theories, and stratagems; for once, his brain was only thinking quiet thoughts about walking, breathing, and seeing nature. The pumpkins by Hagrid's house had been truly gigantic, so orange they almost glowed against the brilliant blue sky.

He missed Blaise and Draco terribly, he realised, but it was a dull ache at the moment.

As he headed back into the castle, thoughts still full of nothing in particular, he ran dead-on into Perenelle Flamel. The dwarf woman, though smaller than him, stood her ground firmly; he was the one that ended up tumbling head over rump onto the ground.

"Oh blast," she grumbled. She reached down and dragged him up, thumping off his clothing with her big hands, more suited for an axe than anything else. He hadn't seen her as much as he had her husband. She co-taught some of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, but she also helped out on the Earth magic side of Herbology and Astronomy, and there were some murmurs of her starting a dueling club.

"You all right?"

"Yes, thank you, Professor Flamel," he said, a little dazed. Surana was hissing angrily from his neck and, to his surprise, Perenelle hissed right back, though she wasn't saying anything that Harry could discern.

"Snakes," she explained gruffly at his curious look. "Always so rude. Can't understand them, but I can recognize the tone. We worked with them when we were working on the Stone."

"How did you create the Stone?" Harry asked eagerly, seizing his chance. "I've read loads of books on alchemy now, including one by the other Professor Flamel, but they are all very circular, much like a snake biting its own tail, in fact. The arguments and theories don't proceed in a logical order. It's very trying if you're trying to study it. Mandy, Padma, and I all took Arithmancy a year early so that we could study alchemy in more depth, you know."

She laughed, a deep, booming thing like thunder in the mountains. "Well, why don't you come to tea, and I'll answer your questions, young master…?"

Harry smiled brightly, realizing she didn't know who he was. "Potter. Harry Potter."

Perenelle led them through the castle to the wing of rooms where she and her husband lived. Their rooms were deep in the dungeons of the castle, at least a mile underground, but on the far side from the lake. The door leading in was round, with a heavy knocker in the center shaped like a cat's face. The actual knocker was the bell hanging from the cat's neck. Inside, there was a large sitting room with doors leading off of it, presumably to the loo, the bedrooms, and perhaps to a kitchen area. The sitting room itself was filled with lush couches covered in fur pelts. Axes hung on the wall, their blades shiny and razor-sharp, and to the left of the entrance was a portrait of a dwarven couple, seemingly both men, with heavy beards and armor. The frame was pure gold.

"Perenelle, those little--" Professor Flamel, gruffly thumping in from one of the doors beyond the sitting room, stopped dead at the sight of Harry ensconced on his couch with a tea cup in hand. "--oh."

 "Hello, Professor Flamel," Harry said. He wrapped his hands tightly around his tea cup, feeling a little conspicuous.

"I invited Harry here to visit our rooms, _mon coeur_ **,"** said Perenelle. "I ran into him outside the castle. He's interested in alchemy, and has the most lovely snake."

"Snakes," Harry admitted. "Surana and Whisper. Surana is a Smooth Snake and Whisper is a Delicana Serpent."

"Hmph. They're always _interested_ in alchemy, but they never have the dedication!" Professor Flamel proclaimed.

Harry would have argued that, but knew that when Uncle Vernon was in a similar mood, there was no chance of assuaging him. It was better to just let him calm himself down and drink his tea until he was in a better frame of mind.

"I believe Harry does," Perenelle boomed, thudding her cup down on the coffee table. "I've already got two students I'm trying to teach Earth magic."

She didn't say anything-- she just gave him a stern look.

Professor Flamel paled. "No."

"I would never dream of telling you what to do."

"No, you'd just _think_ it, real loud."

The two stared at one another for some time, and finally, Professor Flamel threw up his hands. "Fine. But I won't be happy about it."

"Sorry," Harry said tentatively, "but what are you talking about?"  
"Nicolas is going to teach you alchemy," Perenelle said. "Now drink some more of your tea before it gets cold. Nothing worse than cold tea."

"But why me? There are other students interested as well-- Padma Patil is of the Patil family of alchemists, and is already interested, and Mandy Brocklehurst is studying very hard to be able to go into Arithmancy and Ancient Runes early to give her an edge."

"I know the Patil girls," said Professor Flamel. "Good girls, though the Gryffindor one is mostly fluff. They'll get all the schooling they need from their family. And the Brocklehurst girl has a passing interest, but she's unlikely to be a great alchemist. You, though. You're bright, driven."

"And there's always the snakes," Perenelle added.

"Teaching a Parselmouth will make everything much easier," Professor Flamel confirmed. Perenelle didn't even bat an eye at this information; had they discussed it together beforehand, Harry wondered? "So do you accept, boy?"

Harry stared at them blankly, and then finally managed to say, "Yes, yes that sounds wonderful!"

"Good," Perenelle said emphatically. "You and Nicolas can have lessons right after the time that I work on Earth magic with my students, Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy. Monday evenings, six'o'clock, don't be late!"

" _Draco_?!"

"This tea blend is tasty. You should really try it," Perenelle said, and considered the subject closed.

* * *

That night was the Halloween feast. The gigantic pumpkins from outside had made their way inside and had been hollowed-out to form old-fashioned witches' houses. They had working chimneys and doors, and when a student entered one, the doors closed and the houses stood up on tall chicken legs, and took them on a sprint around the entire Great Hall, much to the captured student's delight.

The tables were stocked with rich stews, chilis with apples and sweet potatoes, bubbling cauldrons of non-alcoholic spiced cider, crusty brown breads, and giant vats of pumpkin juice. There were dozens of pies scattered over every table: apple pies with latticed tops, pecan pies with caramel, pumpkin cheesecakes covered in cinnamon sugar, chocolate pies with fresh whipped cream piped onto the surface in elaborate designs, and pear tartlets brushed with warm butter and filled with a brown sugar syrup. These were only the treats that Harry saw close by. There was something that kept spawning bats over the top of the Slytherin table, and the Hufflepuff table had a tiny wyvern sleeping in a soup tureen that every so often would pop her head out, snort a cloud of smoke, and then fall back asleep again.

The room had more mingling among the houses than it did for any other holiday Harry had been present at yet. Padma from Ravenclaw and Pavarti from Gryffindor had absconded to the Hufflepuff table to form a conclave with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. It seemed to involve frequent laughter and sly glances at members of the other tables. Mandy, Morag, and Lisa had taken Millicent Bulstrode from the Slytherin table; all of them were talking about some famous Spanish swordsman. Terry and Michael were forming some kind of Exploding Snap betting pool, which Anthony was presiding over with grace. Most of the other students were involved, including the Weasley twins. They were squabbling loudly over how they should have thought of the betting pool first, and they were getting upstaged now by _second years_.

The feast lasted later than it normally did, and then they had to be split up by houses again to return to their dormitories. Blaise, regardless, stuck with Harry.

"My mother assures me that a Zabini can do whatever a Zabini wishes," Blaise said archly. Every time a prefect glanced around, he ducked behind Harry. It didn't work particularly well, since he was so much taller than Harry, but he still somehow kept managing to be overlooked. "Have you been sending my mother letters? Because I keep forgetting to send them, and she keeps complaining."

"Every week," Harry confirmed, trying to shield Blaise as they headed closer to the Ravenclaw dormitory. "I don't have much time to spend with Demi otherwise, and I don't want him to get out of shape. Not that your mother isn't lovely," he added hurriedly, "it's just that classes this year, and now with the Flamels…?"

"I still can't believe they agreed to teach you!" Padma huffed. She and Mandy pulled up beside him, semi-surrounding Blaise. "Hello, Blaise. Keep your head down-- you're too tall for this kind of sneaking. Harry, I call you getting hero-treatment. We always knew it would happen."

"They barely remember who I am from one moment to the next! They've been alive hundreds of years-- they keep confusing me with a Potter from the 1600s, Yancy Elshim Potter, Lord of Griffon's Nest and Grey Wood. They couldn't be giving me hero treatment."

Padma pouted, then tugged Blaise's headphones over his ears. Quick as a flash, Mandy riddled the eagle-shaped knocker at a whisper, and then the common room doors opened.

"I don't know that I appreciate your lack of fear," Blaise said, glaring at the two girls. "Most are somewhat intimidated by Slytherins, I hope you realise."

Mandy waved a hand at him. "You're a pretty much a fluffy kitten. You fall asleep everywhere, lounge in the sunshine, and follow Harry around without paying attention."

Blaise glared, but the girls just laughed. Harry ignored them, noticing Luna sitting alone at one of the writing desks. Her hair was dripping with pumpkin juice.

"What happened, Luna?" he asked, taking one of the plaid blankets off of the armchairs to sweep around her thin shoulders.

"I'll be fine," Luna said firmly. "It was an accident, I'm sure. I would be more worried about Samhain. You know, Samhain is not always the best time for spirits. I've heard that it's Nearly Headless Nick's Death Day-- you know, the Gryffindor ghost? It's the day he died. How sad, to die on Samhain. I wonder if that's why he couldn't pass on. And in the days of the faeries, on Samhain, the High Elves used to come and steal away women and children to bring to Elphyne. Oh Harry, Blaise is here in the common room, did you know? He should stay. It isn't safe to move about too much tonight."

Harry's brow furrowed. "But why, Luna? And what happened really?"

"I'm not sure why," she admitted. "Sometimes not everything comes together. The Nibri chatter ever so loudly. They live in bedclothes, you know, and whisper to you while you sleep. I think it will make sense in the morning."

She obviously wasn't going to expound any further on her thoughts, so Harry wisely took himself and Blaise up to the boys' dormitory. Terry and Michael, though they didn't much like Blaise, thought it was tremendously clever to hide a Slytherin in the dorms, and Anthony looked utterly unhappy but didn't say a single word. He was reading a book by Amilius Thorpe, which Harry still needed to research.

The boys played chess and Exploding Snap late into the night until they dropped off into sleep one by one. Harry was the last, too used to long nights of reading at Privet Drive to be able to nod straight off. Curling up beside Blaise, he closed his eyes, breathing in the vanilla and cinnamon smell of Blaise's dark curls. He fell asleep.

_It wasn't the first dream. He had been dreaming for weeks now. Sometimes, he was even aware that it was a dream. He stared out from the man's eyes as his followers dug late into the night. Wizards were not much accustomed to digging, and there were no spells to quietly create small holes in the earth without demolishing the surrounding area. It was unfortunately, really. He would have to start inventing spells again if he could find the time._

_"I believe we've collected them all, my Lord," Nott said. The end of his blonde and grey beard was just barely visible from inside his dark cloak._

_"Lovely. Now set them ablaze."_

_The five men working with him all pointed their wands at the pile of dirt-covered bones in front of them. "_ Incendio!" _they intoned._

_The bones cracked and burst into flames, red painting up into the purple midnight sky._

_He wondered if the other projects were going as well as this one._

When Harry woke up, all the ghosts in the castle had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot is happening! Also, I am having way too much fun with dwarves and dream sequences. Most will recognize Perenelle as speaking French in this chapter, since the real Flamels were French. Also, I am so glad dream sequences are canon.
> 
> I love Luna to tiny little pieces. She is just this special cupcake who needs my endless love and adoration, and someday, I will hopefully write a fic that is just about her being a jet-setting naturalist who dimension-walks in her spare time. Harry isn't quite as fond of her as I am yet, but he will be. I am slowly insinuating Luna into his life, bit by bit, until he realizes that nothing can work without her.
> 
> Harry and Blaise are sleeping together again. You see what I did there? XD Eventually Harry is really going to have to get a clue, not that he thinks about Blaise that way. Yet.


	16. [Year Two] All the World's a Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts have disappeared. A few secrets are kept and a few secrets are shared.

Terry's ash wand was quivering a few inches from the tip of Harry's nose when he woke up that morning. Blaise was very still, his lips thin, and, most importantly, Surana had risen up from between the two of them to stare down Terry with her fangs bared.

"What's going on?"

"Get him out of here!" Terry hissed. His gaze alternated between Harry and Surana, back and forth, like a child on a see-saw. "We all bloody well know that it's only _his_ sort who would have done something like this."

"What sort? What's going on?"

"He won't say, but I'm beginning to suspect that we're the sole survivors of some massacre and we're all that's left of Hogwarts class of 1998," Blaise said. He had a sort of distant look about his face that Harry had come to recognize meant he was frighteningly angry. His long, dark fingers curled around Harry's wrist.

The door to the dormitory burst open and Anthony and Michael stormed in. With a nod, Anthony gestured for Michael to wrestle the wand out of Terry's hand. A flicker of red-violet light flashed around Michael's hand when he grabbed Terry's wrist; Terry yelped, dropping his wand on the floor, and Michael snatched it up. Blaise and Harry both tentatively sat up, but Surana didn't move, still hissing lowly at the assembled boys. Her lidless eyes stared up at them, hypnotizing and cold.

"What's going on?" Harry asked again, this time to Anthony.

"He should go," Anthony said tightly. "You woke up late. All the ghosts in Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley are missing, or invisible, except for a handful. Besides that, the Junior Assistant to the Minster of Magic has gone missing as well as a bunch of other assistants or heads in different departments of the Ministry."

Harry scrambled out of bed, nearly tangling himself in periwinkle blue sheets. "Where's Quirrell?"

"What the bloody hell does Professor Quirrell have to do with anything?" Michael asked. There was still a lick of purplish flames light around his fingertips, but with a twist of his wrist, it dissipated.

Harry shook his head. "Never mind. Surana?"

The snake dipped out of bed and slithered across the floor, disappearing into a bolt hole in the wall. "Don't forget to use your wand, Ssssspeaker, not just your brain," she warned as the end of her tail disappeared into the wall.

"See?! That Slytherin has something to do with it, and Harry too! He's a Parselmouth!"

Anthony smacked Terry on the back of the head. "Shut up, Boot. You'd think we hadn't been sharing a dorm for over a year." He was scowling ferociously. Terry flinched back. "Use some Ravenclaw common sense and think for two seconds-- Harry has been sleeping here all night and so has Zabini. We would have noticed if they left."

"But the snake--"

Anthony flicked his gaze over to Harry, then back to Terry. "I'm sure that Harry will tell us in due time about the snake. But it's none of our business. Trust our housemate."

"Thank you, Anthony," Harry said. He smiled at the boy, who turned bright red and sheepishly ruffled his hair back.

"S'alright," Anthony said. "Are you sane yet, Terry?"

Terry seemed to struggle for a second. Harry took the opportunity to stuff his feet into his school loafers and pull a fresh set of school robes over his pajamas. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he said, "Yeah. Sorry, Harry. Sorry, Zabini."

Harry didn't want to say "no problem," since it was a problem. "We have to stop acting other houses are our enemies," he said instead. "Why don't you listen in history class for once-- bad or good, our actions depend on who we are as individuals, not what house we were sorted into when we were eleven. Has Blaise ever done _anything_ to you, besides fall asleep on your Quidditch poster that one time?"

"No," Terry grumbled.

"To be fair, I intentionally fell asleep on that poster. Boot supports an awful team," Blaise interjected. "The bloody _Arrows_. I can't be held responsible for his poor choices. And if he ever points a wand at me again, I'll show him every single nasty hex my mother taught me before houses ever came into it." He smiled, baring all his teeth at Terry, who paled. "Don't fight all my battles for me, Harry. Leave me a few to hang over the head of my enemies. Don't be my enemy, Boot."

"…Sure, stands to reason," said Boot quickly. Then he scowled. "Your team is the _Wasps_ , Zabini. You shouldn't even be talking. You're prejudiced against the Arrows, who managed to win a _sixteen-day_ match, when all the Wasps have managed to do is illegally bat a wasp nest at the Appleby Arrow chaser's head!"

Blaise snorted. "The last time the Arrows won the Quidditch league was over a decade ago. They're getting to be as embarrassing as the Cannons." As Terry spluttered and cursed, Blaise turned to Harry and said, "Breakfast is still on. I imagine we should get to it."

"And so should we," said Anthony, clapping a hand on Terry's shoulder. As the Ravenclaws left the room, Blaise let loose a low buzzing noise, making Terry's back grow tense. He slammed the door closed behind them, glaring over his shoulder.

Deciding to ignore the insanity of the Quidditch talk, Harry stood for a moment, staring into the hole through which Surana had left. The ghosts had disappeared, and so had ministry officials. And all the while that all of these things were happening, Harry had been dreaming.

_Dreaming…? Had he been dreaming? Had something been burning? He could still smell the smoke, acrid and painful in his lungs._

Harry murmured, "Do you think he's back?" He wasn't sure why, but he was absolutely terrified all of a sudden. He had suspected, used logic, schemed, and planned, but being faced with something that actually resembled an attack… he wasn't sure what to make of it.

Blaise reached out, wrapping his hand around Harry's wrist and tugging him from the room. "I'm almost certain of it," he said darkly.

 

* * *

 

When they went down to the Great Hall, it was all in a fuss. Everyone was talking in hushed, grim voices that were somehow louder than shouting would have been. It filled the room with a noise like Harry had once seen in a documentary on the telly, where there was a cathedral full of the drone and hum of monks. There were only three professors in the Hall. Not all of them showed up for mornings anyway, but that few at breakfast was highly unusual. The only teachers left were Professor Sprout, Madam Hooch, and a very sleepy-looking Professor Sinistra.

As Harry and Blaise entered the hall and approached the student tables, the entirety of the Slytherin house turned to look at them. The only one who did not was a deathly pale Draco, who was gripping a fork fast in his hands, both his knuckles and his lips white.

Blaise pulled Harry along to the green-bedecked Slytherin table for the first time since the year had begun. He sat them both down beside Draco, leaning hard into Draco's space as he reached over to grab a couple of slices of buttered toast from the platter in front of them. He plated one for himself and one for Harry.

"Finally gracing us with your presence?" Pansy Parkinson asked, wrinkling her tiny snub nose at them both. "And with an… extra, I see." She shook her head sadly, tightly coiled curls shuddering.

"Pansy," Blaise acknowledged, "please go away, dear. Smarter people plan to talk."

Her mouth fell open. "Why I never!" she said. Picking herself up, she flounced over to the Hufflepuff table to talk to Susan Bones, who didn't look entirely pleased with her new companion.

Blaise turned to Crabbe and Goyle and did nothing more than raise an eyebrow. Crabbe stood up immediately and had to tug at Goyle to get him to take the hint as well.

Draco huffed at him, setting down his fork deliberately and raising his chin. "Something to discuss, now that we've entirely emptied the table?" he asked.

Harry looked up and down the table, which still seemed more or less full, and took a few sausages and put them on his plate next to the toast. From the rafters, Demi spiraled down in a slow, dignified sweep of black and silver feathers. He landed gently on the shoulder of Harry's robes, which was fortunately padded for such an eventuality. With great gravitas, Demi offered his leg. Attached to him with two bits of string, one deep lilac thread and one rough black twine, was a letter and the Daily Prophet.

Harry fed Demi a piece of bacon and released him from the tethers. Demi took a bite of bacon delicately and began to preen Harry's hair. Now was not quite the time to read a letter, though, since Blaise was clearly set on a confrontation.

"What's going on, Draco?" Blaise asked quietly.

Stuffing a piece of sausage in his mouth, Harry flicked his wand up into the air, then slashed it down, intoning, " _Audiento_ ," around the sausage. The listening Slytherins nearby immediately began to look confused, leaning in a touch closer since they could no longer hear anything coming from the three boys.

Draco finally took a bite of his food before setting the fork down again. "Why would _I_ know?" he asked. His words were less defensive than they were careful.

"Why do you smell like blood this year, and refuse to meet my eyes?" Harry swallowed his mouthful of sausage and took a bite of toast. "Why are you getting lessons from Perenelle in Earth magic? Why was Dobby the House Elf in my house this summer?"

Draco's head snapped up at that. "You saw Dobby?" he asked, grey eyes wide. "You…." A large Eagle owl dove down, landing on the table with a clunk that made the dishes and platters shake. It offered its leg, golden eyes stern. If possible, Draco went even paler. He took the letter and skimmed it quickly. After only a moment, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the air. With a flick of his wand and a muttered curse, the letter burst into flame.

"Bad news?" Blaise asked sharply.

Draco just stared for a moment, face entirely blank and then to Harry's astonishment, his eyes grew glassy with tears that he blinked away quickly. "He's going to take me out of school and send me to Durmstrang. Even Mother agrees. They're coming this afternoon to withdraw me from school."

"Draco?" Harry asked uncertainly.

"I can't tell you, but I can't go to Durmstrang either. What do I--" He closed his eyes and took a breath, gathering himself. "I would like for you not to be angry with me, Harry," he said after a moment. "Though I know I have no right to ask. If I could tell you, I would. But I haven't been able to...."

Harry leaned against the other boy for a moment, then stood up. "All right," he said. Let's go find Professor Snape."

The other boys stared at him. "Well, he can't very well go to Durmstrang, can he?" he demanded. "Professor Snape can help."

"No, he can't," Draco said. He seemed even more panicked than when he had gotten the letter. "He's part of the problem, isn't he? Don't you know? He--"

"No," interrupted Harry, "I don't think he is." He gave Demi a pat and the owl took the hint, taking flight back to the owlery. "I've some long-winded explanations about why, but for now, can you trust me? We have a time limit here. When will your father be arriving?"

"This afternoon. He said to be ready at three."

"Then we have no time to waste." In the face of his determination, Blaise and Draco got up and followed him from the hall.

 

* * *

 

Snape was not in his rooms nor his office, nor his classroom. This efficiently kept the three boys from finding him for quite some time. Other suggestions, such as perhaps he was gathering ingredients at the edge of the forest or the greenhouses, were unfortunately disproven. He wasn't in any of the teachers' lounges that the three knew about either, and though they would have tried the Headmaster's Office, none knew the password or could waste the time to wait outside of it. During this long trek, Blaise kept badgering him about why they were going to Snape, though Draco was curiously quiet on the subject after his first protest.

"We should just go back to the Night Room," Draco said. The line of his shoulders wasn't slumped, but it wasn't at ease either. His grey eyes were shining with a curious light, almost but not quite like triumph. Determined resignation, Harry supposed? "Play a last game of chess before my father makes good on his promise."

"I can't believe you'll be going to Durmstrang simply because we can't find one of our professors! It's bullocks!" Harry said, scowling. It had been a good plan, too. Well, it had been a reckless plan, and probably not as sensible as it should have been, but still. The turned a bend in the hall and nearly stumbled over McGonagall in her cat form.

"Professor!" Harry said, brightening.

Professor McGonagall leapt forward, and in doing so transformed liquidly from a tabby to a woman. She took a moment to adjust her tartan witch's hat, then said sternly, "Mr. Potter, unless it's terribly urgent, we're all quite busy, and I need to return to Gryffindor House to meet my prefects."

"Were you attempting to see the ghosts in your cat form?" Harry asked, momentarily distracted and intensely interested. "It's said that cats, especially those born with more magic than the others, are able to detect ghosts and disturbances in the dimensional walls, as well as being able to tear apart wizarding space if there are any flaws in the arithmancy that creates it. Can even an animagus cat do the same, or was there a different reason that--"

" _Mr. Potter_."

Harry sighed. "It _is_ urgent," he said. "We need to see Professor Snape, immediately."

"Professor Snape is very busy as well, Mr. Potter. If it's urgent, I can--"

"It has to be Professor Snape. I'm sorry, Professor." He could tell her, to be entirely truthful, and it might even help, but he understand the kind of reactions he could expect from Snape more than her understood McGonagall. She was changeable, often stern, sometimes good-humored, and her soft spot for the Ravenclaw House wouldn't necessarily keep her from expelling him for what he needed to tell Snape. Not to say that Snape wouldn't expel him, but there was at least a sixty percent chance that he would find it amusing or entertaining as well, if he treated Harry more like an honorary Slytherin than as Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World.

Professor McGonagall frowned, eyes moving from one boy's face to the next, and finally said,

"Well, if it's truly urgent, I don't mind telling you that Professor Snape is currently in Professor Sprout's office near Hufflepuff, since Professor Sprout is needed at the greenhouses. Have you been to your own houses since breakfast?"

They shook their heads.

"Well, it has been determined that tomorrow will be a half-day while we attempt to determine if the ghosts are missing, invisible, or in hiding."

"If it helps," Harry said, "my glasses are enchanted to see invisible ghosts, and I haven't seen a thing all day."

Professor McGonagall frowned even more, if that was possible. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. That corroborates nicely with what I've observed as well," she said. Her mouth twitched. "And yes, I can see ghosts in my animagus form. Make sure you return to your House after you find Professor Snape-- your own house, please, Mr. Zabini, not your friend's House."

"I support cross-house friendship!" Blaise said grandly. She only frowned at him and turned back into a cat, which made her frown all the more terrifying.

Harry snickered and pulled the two Slytherins with him to the Hufflepuff dormitory.

"So where might we locate the Hufflepuff dormitory?" Blaise asked. Despite directing his words to Harry, he was watching Draco, a perplexed look on his face.

"I'm not sure of the _exact_ placement, but I know it's near the kitchens," Harry said. "If we head south of the Great Hall, there should be an increase in paintings with food and feast scenes. Geoff Landrang theorized that the reason for this was that the Founders wanted their students to be able to take a midnight snack, since after the War of the Vipers, no one took food for granted."

" _Hogwarts, a History_?" Blaise asked drily.

 Harry nodded. " _Hogwarts, a History_ ," he confirmed. "With a dash of Landrang's _The Founders Four_."

As they passed, the paintings whispered and stared. There was a low grumble about Slytherins and Ravenclaws socializing, but the grumble about the missing ghosts was much louder.

"Start looking for a sudden dark cloud or a dramatic shadow caused by sweeping robes," Harry suggested, trying to draw Draco into the conversation. He had fallen silent, expression pensive and a bit sick. "It's how we'll know we've found Professor Snape."

"I would stop while you're ahead, Mr. Potter," Snape said.

Harry flinched, turning to look in the open door just on his left. Draco ducked behind him. Blaise just huffed a sigh.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry said, wincing.

"I assume you are looking for me, despite the fact that students are supposed to be in their Houses unless absolutely necessary?"

"Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor."

Harry swallowed hard. He had never quite gotten over the way Professor Snape had behaved toward him first year, always questioning, always critical, very dramatic, and quite cruel to Harry in particular. Harry had worked very hard last year to try to raise Professor Snape's respect of him, but he had been somewhat distracted this year and wasn't doing as well. With his additional workload of Arithmancy and increased workloads from History of Magic and Defense, he simply hadn't had as much time to spend researching Potions theory. And Professor Snape never explained. He expected you to figure it out yourself and you were an imbecile if you couldn't.

Faced with Professor Snape, Harry's nerve almost failed him. Seeing Draco's carefully "not frightened" face behind him, however, gave him courage.

"Could we speak with you? Privately?"

"I'm very busy, Mr. Potter. In case it has escaped you, we are in somewhat of a crisis at the moment. I have just barely finished meeting with the Hufflepuff prefects in lieu of Professor Sprout."

"We would hardly come bother you if it wasn't urgent," Blaise said coolly.

Snape regarded the three of them for a long moment, black eyes unblinking and seemingly pupil-less due to how dark they were. At last, he said, "Very well. You may all step inside Professor Sprout's office with me, if it's really so tremendously important that it can't possibly wait for a more opportune time when a very large and historic population of Hogwarts has gone entirely missing."

Since it was far wiser not to answer that, they followed Snape into the office and closed the door.

Very much unlike Snape's own office, Professor Sprout's office was light and airy. There were shelves and stands everywhere, covered with plants of all shapes and sizes. Some of the plants turned to greet them as they walked through the door. There was a floating fountain in the center of the room, with water cascading from a ring of lilies at the top and dissipating into a fine mist before it hit the ground.

"Well?" demanded Professor Snape, seating himself grumpily behind Professor Sprout's desk. Her desk seemed to be constructed entirely of large planters, and sitting behind it caused Snape's dour face to be wreathed in pink and yellow flowers.

Draco refused to speak. Blaise merely looked at Harry, composed, and waited.

Just lovely. It would have to be Harry to speak. Of course it was his idea, but he had somehow hoped that by the time they got here, it would all just sort of work out, and he wouldn't have to say a word. This was nonsense, but he had still hoped.

Harry thought for a moment about how he wanted to phrase this. There were a thousand ways to begin. With someone like Snape, it was absolutely crucial to choose the right way, the right phrase to make the man listen and not give them all detentions post-haste. He hadn't really planned this out-- he hated not having everything planned out and thoroughly researched-- but he took strength from Blaise's steady presence at his side and from the spying Surana had done in the shadows of the teachers' meetings this year and last.

"I don't know everything that's going on, so Draco will have to speak at some point," Harry warned, "especially since this is really about him. I'm aware you know about Professor Quirrell, and that he stole the Philosopher's Stone from the castle last year-- something to do with a mirror?"

Draco was spluttering at this point, having not known most of this, and Professor Snape's eyebrows were climbing steadily higher.

"Though, what I don't know is why Headmaster Dumbledore decided to keep him on, knowing that he had stolen the Philosopher's Stone, presumably due to some allegiance to the Dark Lord. _Anyway,_ you knowing that is why I wanted to speak to you privately, not to mention that you're Draco and Blaise's Head of House. Headmaster Dumbledore also trusts you more than he does most other people in the castle-- you're always talking behind closed doors even after the other teachers have gone, with much more powerful wards, and--"

"Mr. Potter," Snape broke in, "how, precisely, do you know all these things?"

Harry weighed his options. He could tell Professor Snape about speaking to snakes. He wasn't overly afraid that Snape would have a bad reaction or shun him for it. The only thing he was worried about was that if Snape knew about Surana, he and Dumbledore might start using more clever spells to ward their conversations, ones that Harry didn't know and couldn't combat. Then he wouldn't have a reliable source of information if he needed it. Honestly, though, Surana couldn't spy on the most sensitive conversations, which were in Dumbledore's office anyway, and Draco couldn't go to _Durmstrang_ of all places. It was said that the highest-achieving students there were turned into vampires when they graduated, and Draco was remarkably bright.

"I have a snake, you know," Harry said. "Surana. On my cousin Dudley's birthday last year, I met her at the zoo in Surrey. Her breed is native to the area, and she was the one who told me about being a wizard. She helped me convince my aunt to let me go, and since Aunt Petunia didn't tell Uncle Vernon about it, he's assumed that I'm not actually a wizard like my parents and let me move from the cupboard under the stairs to Dudley's second bedroom upstairs." Not only Snape, but Blaise and Drace, were staring at him now. He frowned. "She's really been a great help."

"You can speak to snakes?" said Snape evenly.

"The cupboard under the stairs?!" Blaise asked.

"Do you not tell me anything?" Draco demanded.

"I'm not the point! The point is that Draco's father is coming this afternoon to take him to Durmstrang, and I am fairly certain that at the Malfoy's Yule party last year, I saw Professor Quirrell show Lord Malfoy a very particular blood red stone that shimmered like caught flame." Harry sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "So if Draco could tell us what is going on so that we could save him from being turned into a Durmstrang vampire, that would be much appreciated."

"I can't!" Draco snapped, and then turned away and stubbornly refused to say anything else.

"But…!"

"I now require," Snape said, voice slow and very cold, "that everyone in this room take a moment to close their _constantly gabbing_ mouths so that I can have a moment to think about all that I've heard."

"But--" said Blaise. Snape's eyes flashed.

For several moments, they sat in silence. Blaise looked very dark and unhappy, where Draco looked frightened and guilty. For his part, Harry began thinking of spells and charms that might help Surana sneak past any upgraded spells that might protect the staff meetings from now on.

"Mr. Potter, you will have one week's detention, for sticking your nose where it most certainly does not belong," Snape decided.

Harry's mouth fell open. He had expected an expulsion, and being given only a week's detention made him feel light-headed. "Really? You're not serious."

"I most certainly am, and be grateful I haven't assigned more." Snape smiled thinly. "On the other hand, I will also award Ravenclaw two points for some of the slyest thinking that I've ever seen outside of Slytherin. Your father would turn over in his grave."

"You knew my father?"

Somehow, Snape knowing his father, or both of his parents, would explain so much about his dislike of Harry. Though Snape was a recorded Death Eater and had been to trial for it, Dumbledore's support of him suggested that he was actually not a supporter of the Dark Lord, and Blaise's mother had further confirmed this by mentioning last year that Snape had grown up with a Muggleborn girl that he had been friends with.

"Don't ask questions while I am speaking." Well, that was familiar, at least. "Mr. Malfoy, do you wish to attend Durmstrang for your education instead of Hogwarts?"

Draco seemed conflicted at that, his eyes almost heartbreakingly frustrated before his expression cleared. "No! I want to stay here."

"Can you tell us any of the Dark Lord's plans without compromising your loyalty to your family?" Draco said nothing. Snape closed his eyes and sighed, just once, looking tired beyond measure. When his eyes opened, he was completely unreadable again. "All right. I will meet your parents at the Headmaster's office and do my best." He looked at each of them in turn, very seriously. "I trust that none of you are so foolish as to spread anything we discussed today about the school?"

"Harry and I have known all year," Blaise said dismissively.

"I don't want to talk anyway!" Draco complained.

"I wish I could give you all detention." Snape sighed. "What a wonderful world that would be. Go back to your Houses. I will take care of this." He paused. "Mr. Malfoy, you will come to my office after dinner, assuming all goes well with Lucius and Narcissa, and we will be discussing this."

White-faced, Draco nodded.

They left the room. "Are you going to be nice again now, or are you going to keep being a bully?" Harry asked Draco flatly, once they were in the hall.

"My father—"

 "Isn't you," Blaise finished. "Don't be a fool, Draco."

Draco shrugged, tucking his chin close to his chest and breathing deep.

"Cupboard under the stairs?" Blaise asked Harry again.

"We should really go back to our Houses and see what's happening," Harry said brightly. "I'll see you in classes on Monday!"

He headed off, not quite at a run, and wondered at how long Surana had been gone so far today.

He read his letter and the Daily Prophet as he went.

 

 

Madam Zabini's letter was almost a novel.

 

 _Dear Blaise and Harry, for I'm sure you're together_ (he really should have read it earlier),

 

_A number of whispers have been making their way to my ears over the past few weeks, things I am not entirely comfortable putting into a letter and which I believe are now coming to a head. Since I shouldn't like to risk any of our owls, the bulk of this news will have to wait until I see you on the winter holidays. What remains in this letter is what I am unafraid to tell you, due to its vague nature, or due to it being common knowledge within the circles that matter._

_You are not safe anywhere right now, including Hogwarts, but since Hogwarts is still the safest place in Britain, there you will stay until I can safely spirit you both to Italy, though we shall probably need to change houses. The Dark Lord is rising again, and where he got his power and the ability to do so, most seem not to know. It's clear that the theft of the Philosopher's Stone from the Flamels, as we discussed, has played a part, but most experts agree that it is not the whole of the story. He seems to be more powerful than ever, though blessed few have seen his face._

_I am not ashamed to tell you that I am afraid and worried. Not just for myself, who refused to take a side twelve years ago and thus made a few enemies for herself, but also for you, and especially Harry._

_He wants you dead, Harry. All of my contacts, and mine are far better informed than Dumbledore's could dream to be, agree that the attack against you that evening eleven years ago was not an attack on your family or on your line, as most believe. No, it was an attack on you, Harry James Potter, personally._

_And it is not your fault. Do not think for even one second that your parents' deaths are your fault._

_Both of you need to be exceedingly careful because of this. I know you, Blaise, and I know you won't abandon Harry for a moment given the option. Don't. You know the contingencies and the safeguards, and I know you will take them if necessary. Harry, be safe and smart, and continue to write._

_Go nowhere alone, and certainly not with Quirrell._

 

_May the shadows grace you,_

Harry folded the letter, gave the riddle to the knocker, and rejoined Ravenclaw  House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even BEGIN to tell you how difficult this chapter was. The reason it's so late is due to writing this and the next chapter by hand, which meant I had to decipher my own handwriting, type it all up, and then edit it heavily since I couldn't do a working edit as I went. I had to go through and change the characterization of almost everyone, since it was all over the place, and Blaise originally didn't speak beyond about one line.
> 
> If there are any typos, let me know-- it was taking so long to type up that I sacrificed accuracy for speed.
> 
> SO. My current intentions are to write a Christmas Special. However, to get to the point that I need to, that means that I'll be posting today, Sunday the 18th, Wednesday the 21st, Friday the 23rd, and then finally the Christmas special. If I get off track, I'll have to shift the schedule to a New Year's Special, but I'm hoping to get it all set.


	17. [Year Two] Five Detentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts are still missing (of course), Draco is a liar, alchemy is confusing, and even more importantly, Surana hasn't yet returned from spying on Quirrell. In short, everything is awful.

That classes were not entirely cancelled the next day led to the supreme disappointment of the student body. Everyone, from the professors right down to the house elves, were concerned and distracted all day. The house elves had barely managed a motley and strange assortment of foods—round rolls, hard as river stones and studded with hazelnuts and orange slices, bananas deep-fried and coated with a chile sauce, and candy– endless bowls of candy—were some of the odd selections at breakfast.

Harry had shared Madam Zabini's letter with Blaise over a plateful of rolls stuffed with tuna salad, hard candy, and pan-seared bat liver.

As he read, Blaise slowly began to frown, his face transitioning so smoothly that Harry could barely tell when it switched from "mostly-asleep" to "intelligent, worried, and a touch dangerous." Blaise's brown-black curls were standing out all over his head in a ruffled mess, made only slightly better when he set down the letter with an exasperated sigh and ran his hand through it. "I wonder what she knows about what's going on. She's been a bit distracted by her latest lover."

Harry choked on his peppermint ladybird. "Only you could say 'lover' like it's a normal part of an everyday conversation."

"Draco could as well," Blaise pointed out, raising his eyebrows. "And most of the other purebloods as well. You're the one who doesn't know the etiquette. It's really something you  might consider practicing. It's no good to know the rules if you don't bother with them." At the mention of Draco, Harry glanced over to the Slytherin table. Draco was still sullenly apart from them at breakfast, shooting frequent glares in the direction of Professor Snape at the head table."Where's Surana?"

Blaise's question pulled Harry's attention back to the Ravenclaw table. "How did you get from that topic to this?" he wondered.

Laughing, Blaise gestured with his wand toward the end of the table: " _Accio_ pumpkin hash.  I've been teaching her etiquette while she's with me, in the hopes that she'll teach you." He spooned himself some of the hash, which had landed neatly on the table in front of him. "She seems to be progressing far better than you would if I taught you directly."

At a loss for words, Harry shook his head, trying to think of what to say to that. Purebloods: they were insane. If they weren't introducing you to their friends as if you were Prince Charming at the ball, they were teaching etiquette to your snake.

"Summon me the candied ginger omelettes if you're going to go about breakfast summoning things."

"You'll rot your teeth, or break one. Do it yourself." Blaise's smug glance said that he already knew Harry's answer to that.

"I can't, you prat." Harry elbowed his friend sharply, feeling the bony press of Blaise's elbow in return against his side. "I don't know that one yet. How can you never study and still manage to know spells years ahead of when you should?"

"Natural talent."

Harry sighed. "She's still missing."

"Do you think Quirrell caught her?" Blaise asked immediately. Harry wasn't even sure how to reply to that. He didn't dare even think of it.

Seeing his face, Blaise groaned dramatically and summoned the candied ginger omelettes, the wide gesture he made to do the summoning pressing him close to Harry's side. Harry's skin tingled, as if he had caught a chill.

Blaise really was the best friend.

"This is disgusting," Harry said after his first bite of the omelette.

"Well, serves you right."

He didn't have too much time to worry over Surana, though, since the half-day classes meant that everyone was rushed. Professor Flamel had pulled him aside after History of Magic and said sternly, "Everyone is busy, and I barely have enough time to eat, much less tutor you in alchemy. However, Perenelle has told me that I must keep my obligations, so you and her students all need to be in our rooms precisely an hour before dinner, otherwise you'll skip lessons today and we'll start next Monday instead. Do you understand?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, I do! Thank you, Professor Flamel." In the midst of all the discussion about ghosts, the race to find Snape, and Surana not returning, Harry had completely forgotten about his upcoming lessons in alchemy from Professor Flamel.

Harry sat with Luna in the common room after lunch, an alchemy book in hand. The younger girl was looking pensive, tying beads into her long hair.

"Okay, Luna?" Harry asked, taking a break from reading the dense and impossible to understand book by Frater Albertus, one sample of which was: "What, then, is Alchemy? It is 'the raising of vibrations.' […] In alchemy there are the lesser and greater circulations.  The fact that Alchemy is a life's work will be accepted by those who have spent months and years behind books and reports. […] It is this significant fact that provides our spagyric art with such an armor that no materialist can pierce it." What in the blazes did "spagyric" mean? Harry hadn't the slightest, and honestly was quite fed up with Albertus' mysticism. The book was supposedly from a Muggle and written in the 1970s. There was no need for the word "spagyric."

"I'm well, thank you, Harry Potter," said Luna. "I'm musing on the nature of dreams."

"Dreams?" Harry frowned.

_Dreams? What was it about dreams that he was supposed to remember?_

"Yes." Luna let one beaded strand of hair fall from her hands to rest against her collarbone. "Dreams. I dream quite often about Marietta Edgecombe pushing me from the Astronomy tower. Of course, Marietta has never pushed me from the Astronomy tower in real life as far as I remember, but one can't help but somewhat censure her dream self for being so violent."

"Marietta Edgecombe?" Harry was trying to picture the girl-- he knew she was another Ravenclaw-- but couldn't manage it.

"Yes, she's two years above me, curly red hair. Have you had any strange dreams, Harry? The Nibri have been very active of late, and I do wonder why they chatter so."

"I don't think so…." Harry thought he could smell something for a moment, sharp and hot, and his eyes burned like they were full of smoke.

"You'll remember eventually. Do you have your alchemy lesson with Professor Flamel now?"

Harry looked at the time and yelped. "Yeah, thanks, Luna!"

 

* * *

 

Harry, Neville Longbottom, and Draco were all meeting in the Professors' Flamel's personal chambers before leaving with the individual professors for their lessons, so that was where Harry headed. He was greeted most politely by Perenelle, who informed him that the other Professor Flamel was running a touch late, and was seated next to a very nervous Neville. Both were given cups of tea and a small tower of cake, and left to their own devices while Perenelle tinkered with things around the room, righting pieces of armor and hammering out the dent in a tower shield.

Draco came in the room next, jumped a little at seeing Harry, and almost said something unpleasant to Neville before Harry kicked him sharply in the shin.

"Have a bit of ginger cake," Harry suggested, shoving one into Draco's hands. "Neville, how's Hermione been? The last time we talked, Draco was giving her a hard time."

"G-g-good," Neville said, looking at Draco as if he would bite.

"Neville, now that you're both here, run ahead and tell Professor Sprout that we'll be on our way, so she'll need to unlatch the doors to greenhouse two," Perenelle ordered.

Neville nodded gratefully and bolted from the room.

Perenelle looked at the two boys remaining, gaze sharp over her beak of a nose. "Now that we've gotten rid of my most promising student-- no, it's clearly never been you, Mr. Malfoy-- Professor Dumbledore has made a request that I talk to you both. Lord Malfoy was here yesterday, attempting to remove our topaz-haired friend here from the school due to 'the increased danger now that all of the ghosts were missing; can't we keep the castle safe; what are we doing with ourselves if we aren't doing our jobs?' Professor Snape neatly managed to dissuade him from removing Mr. Malfoy, but it was somewhat easier than expected, which has made us all wonder what Lord Malfoy is really up to."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Draco. His gaze was steady, but unfortunately for him, Harry knew that he never looked as calm as he did when he was lying. Harry was really starting to feel sick of all this endless lying.

Perenelle snorted tea into her beard. "Yes, so am I, though I'd bet my left breast that you actually believe the opposite. Just as you were sure you knew what you were doing when I took you on as a student to begin with."

"Oh!" Harry attracted both of their attention with his soft exclamation, and promptly flushed as a result. "No, sorry, continue on. I had just been wondering why Draco was getting lessons in Earth magic and I only now managed to figure it out, though I don't have all the details yet."

"You're quite bright, Mr. Potter, if you figured that all already," Professor Flamel said, tramping into the room and throwing himself on the couch beside Perenelle. He began peeling off his heavy boots, revealing darned red socks. "Perenelle and I thought it would take you at least two more meetings before your lessons before she managed to drop enough hints."

"I had already been working on it. Draco is a friend, after all."

"Shut it, Harry," Draco hissed.

"No, please, continue," said Perenelle, and with a slash of her wand, Draco's mouth glued closed. "We would like to hear your theories, and they may shed more light on Lord Malfoy's schemes."

"Well, the reason is that he's an idiot." Draco began making muffled noises of murderous protest. Harry set down his tea. "Blaise already figured out that he was practicing blood magic, but made sure to say that it wasn't the... um… the 'safe, druid kind'? Something like that. So that probably means he was using it improperly, or using the Dark version that relies more on the blood of others than your own blood, like Michael Corner's version does. I've been researching blood magic since Michael has clearly been practicing since at least last year. It's very interesting, though I like my own blood where it is. Blood magic is naturally tied to Earth  magic, since our blood is one of the fluids linking us to the Earth and enough shed gives us more magical ties to it. That's why people who've become close to death, even Muggles, start seeing and doing things that they weren't able to do before-- they have a stronger tie to the Earth, and more magic. It's also, incidentally, why people thought nearly killing Squib children would make them more magical, and it's been theorized that it's why the Three Lords were chained to the Earth. You must have learned that Draco was improperly using blood magic, which could kill him, and are trying to correct his idiocy by teaching him Earth magic. My only remaining question is why Draco is suddenly practicing blood magic as of this summer, when the only changing factor that I know of is, of course, the suspected rise of--" Here, Harry smartly swallowed his words.

Professor Flamel began a slow clap, his hands booming together as Draco shrunk down beside Harry. "Very good, Lord Griffon. Take it the next step, if you would, even if you'd rather not tell us the conclusions that we can already guess."

If the only changing factor was the Dark Lord's rise, and Harry could tie Quirrell and the Stone to Draco's father….

"Oh." Harry's stomach sunk to his shoes. "You're learning blood magic because your father wants you to support the Dark Lord somehow." He could half-remember something he might have already guessed, or something that he hadn't known he knew: "Reluctantly. You don't want to support him, but you are anyway, because it's not just that blood magic is bad. It's that it's natural, it's family. You can't turn against them without consequences. I didn't think you would-- He tried to kill me. He did kill my parents."

Professor Flamel stood up. "Wonderful deductions,  Lord Griffon. Perenelle, you may collect your mute student and meet the smart one at the greenhouses so I can continue my lesson."

Perenelle raised her eyebrows. "Oh, _may_ I, then?" She took a look at Harry's face and her own softened. She quickly urged Draco out of the room, his mouth still glued shut and his expression horribly guilty.

"That is the first lesson," Professor Flamel said seriously. "Alchemy is not only the transmutation of something from one form to another. It is also a representation of the ties that exist as part of nature. Blood to earth, flesh to bone, stars to dust. We can separate and try to break these ties, though it's easiest with plants and other living things since their minds can be persuaded to change whereas the mind of a mote of sand might not. In coming lessons, we will be doing just that plants. Have you ever heard the word spagyric?"

Harry's attention was shattered, but he nodded anyway.

"It refers to a specific kind of medicine using a plant's soul after the plant has been reduced to ash. It is one of the first things that we will learn how to do." Flamel sighed heavily. "Please, your attention."

Harry looked up. Did Draco want him dead, he wondered? He couldn't, could he? He was Harry's friend-- they had just run all over the castle together to try to save Draco from a threat that Harry suspected wasn't really a threat at all. How did it all fit together? Didn't the friends you chose mean just as much as the family you were born with? If it didn't, what was the point? Harry had the Dursleys, and that was it. He might as well not even be a wizard.

"We reckon that suggesting Mr. Malfoy be transferred to Durmstrang was a ploy on the part of Mr. Malfoy's father. The teachers have all noticed a sharp division in your friendship with Mr. Malfoy, and it has been suggested that that division might be a ploy of Mr. Malfoy's own, so that he didn't have to report your innermost thoughts to his father. Snape told us you know about the Dark Lord and that he's risen again, though we have no evidence."

"Yes."

"We have no doubt that he's still interested in you. Lucius Malfoy was always a great supporter of the Dark Lord. It was said that he was the Dark Lord's second-in-command, though it could never be proven."

"My life would have been so much simpler if he had succeeded when he tried to kill me," Harry said hollowly.

Flamel's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and large. "And everyone else's would have been far poorer for it. Lesson over, Mr. Potter. Read about transmutation if you can. I'll see you next week."

Harry dragged himself out of the depression he had fallen into and scowled at Flamel. "No, it's not. It's not been fifteen minutes and it's nowhere close to dinner time. I want to learn alchemy, even if my friend is betraying me to a man who wants to kill me. The more knowledge I have, the better prepared I'll be. Tell me more about 'spagyric,' though I still think it's an awful word."

Flamel grinned triumphantly, like Harry had just passed a hard test.

"Wonderful!" he said. "And you might consider that Mr. Malfoy isn't so much betraying you as he is trying very hard to not have to betray you."

"Somehow, that's still not ideal." Though it was a bit heartening, and Harry appreciated the effort.

 

* * *

 

After an extremely strange dinner of apple sausages, orange cake, and grape soda, a dinner where the grim faces of Hogwarts' faculty gave away the fact that they knew nothing more about the ghosts than they did the day prior, Harry had detention with Professor Snape.

Harry did not enjoy having detention. He had never had detention before, but having Professor Flitwick solemnly tell him to report to Professor Snape after dinner, disappointment etched across his grave face, seemed like the worst of tragedies. Not to mention the time it took out of Harry's studies and research, or the time it robbed from him that he could be spending trying to delicately tell Blaise about what he had learned. Blaise might not even believe him. He had been friends with Draco longer than he had with Harry, and Harry would never want to assume. He was also finding that he had even missed Crabbe and Goyle, who could be surprisingly good company when they wanted, for all that they barely spoke to anyone but one another.

Beside the entrance to the Potions classroom were two portraits. One was of a rather stately wizard who was usually engrossed in pouring potions from one vial to another. The other was of a snake, curled sleepily around an apple. Unlike the portrait of the wizard, it didn't move. A Muggle must have painted it, and how Snape and gotten it, Harry didn't know. It looked rather amateurish compared to the other paintings in the castle, and instead of a name, it just had the creator's mark of a sparsely-drawn lily.

The door to the classroom was open, and when Harry hesitated at it, Snape looked up from his desk where he sat, marking papers with a rather resplendent green quill.

"Come in, Mr. Potter, and cease blocking my doorway."

Harry entered the Potions classroom. The cauldrons were inactive and the fires dead—student cauldrons were always cleaned and placed in the student cubbies in a nearby storage room at the end of every class period. Rarely, and for detentions only, Harry had heard that Professor Snape would drag dirty, tarnished pewter cauldrons out of storage for students to clean. He had not done so, as far as Harry could tell—yet.

Professor Snape put down his quill. "Take a seat, Mr. Potter," he said, pushing his papers on his desk aside. Gingerly, Harry sat. "You are uncommonly bright for your age, Mr. Potter." Harry thought this was an overstatement, since he wasn't so much exceptionally bright as others were decidedly unmotivated, but far be it for him to argue with the second person who had said it so far that day. "Since you clearly did not get such a thing from your father, and your mother was the brightest witch of her generation, it must be assumed that we have her to thank for this."

"I wouldn't know, sir," said Harry. "Aunt Petunia doesn't much like my mother, from what I can tell."

"She never did," Snape admitted.

Harry frowned. "You knew my Aunt Petunia?!" He flinched immediately. He knew that, like with the Dursleys, he wasn't to ask questions.

"Yes, for a time." Snape stared at him, unblinking. "You scored the highest in your grade for Potions last year, matching Mr. Malfoy."

"Yes?" This was old news.

"Your work this year, however, has been just above appalling. Today for detention, you will retake your subpar assessments and review the basics that you have been neglecting in favor of your recent work as school spymaster.

Harry couldn't even think of what he wanted to say for several moments. "So, you want me to read books and do schoolwork. For detention."

"Yes."

"In the interests of being fair, sir, has it escaped your attention that I'm a Ravenclaw?"

"Two points for your cheek, Potter, and don't make me take more. You'll find the ingredients of the Cold Cure over there—" He nodded his head to the work station in the corner. "Your first attempt would have better caused colds than cured them. And be silent. I don't want you disturbing me while I work."

That was the first night.

 

* * *

 

By the end of Tuesday, Surana still hadn't reappeared and Harry was barely functioning. He still hadn't managed to discern how he was going to tell Blaise about Lucius Malfoy's plan, and because of it, categorically kept away from the Slytherins as much as he could. His brain kept returning to the idea that she was dead, killed because of what he had asked her. He learned nothing all day, sure that Quirrell was giving him smug looks, and he couldn't even speak when Anthony asked him what was wrong. Whisper had taken to hissing lowly to him all day long, too stupid to really comprehend what was going on, but aware enough to say, "it'ssss okay, it'ssss okay..." all day long.

Snape took a look at him when he dragged himself into detention, pointed wordlessly to the cauldrons for cleaning, and said nothing for the rest of the evening.

On the way back from detention, he ran head-on into one of the paintings at the end of a hallway and the woman in it, Violet something, hadn't stopped berating him for a full fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday morning, Blaise broke into the Ravenclaw common room and camped outside Harry's dormitory door. Harry fell over him when he was leaving for breakfast, nearly catapulting head-first down the staircase. Blaise caught him, ignoring Harry's squeak, and they sat together on the floor.

"Good morning. What's going on?" Blaise greeted. His headphones were resting around his neck, the Sing-spinner releasing the croon of _The Dead Roses_ into the hallway. Harry ducked his head, but only managed to knock his skull against Blaise's chest.

"Lemme go," he said, struggling to stand up. Blaise rolled his eyes, unmoving. "You won't like it."

"Things seem to have gone pear-shaped, so I don't think I'll like much of anything for a while now," Blaise replied.

"All right, Harry?" Anthony asked, stepping over them in his own attempt to leave the dormitory. His hair was a touch wet, like he had just gotten out of the shower, and curling over the edge of his collar.

"No. Help me up?"

Anthony reached down, helping Harry to his feet. He met Blaise's annoyed frown with his own heavy glare. Ignoring them both, Harry headed to breakfast, barely catching the very edge of a vile exchange between the two boys, though he didn't hear what it was about.

Blaise met him between almost every class and forcefully sat beside him in those classes they had together. This constant presence was something of a feat, considering that three of Harry's classes—five time slots—weren't even with the Slytherins. Every time Harry turned around, Blaise was there, saying that Harry needed to stop being a prat, that whatever was going on wasn't his fault so Harry should talk to him, telling him that Surana was surely all right. Blaise's hand was constantly on his shoulder, keeping him from walking into walls or other students in his distraction, and thus distracting him all the further.

Harry was only thankful that he didn't have Defense on Wednesdays. He didn't think he could bear seeing Quirrell, or even Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had interpreted the word "partner" to mean "overseer," and in the shortened class on Monday had had the nerve to tell Harry that he was distracted, and if Harry's distraction affected his grade, Harry would sorely regret it. Harry couldn't wait for the project to be over the partners to switch. He was hoping for Susan Bones, who was one of the top in their year, with Harry, Draco, and Hermione Granger. 

However, all the extra attention made Harry feel a little more connected, and distracted him from worrying about Surana, since he had other things to worry about with Blaise at his side.

"A little less pathetic today, Mr. Potter?"

Harry blushed, approaching Snape's desk. "Sorry, sir. My snake has been missing since the morning with the ghosts."

Snape's gaze narrowed. "She disappeared with the ghosts?"

"Oh no. No. I sent her to spy on…." At Snape's raised eyebrow, Harry trailed off, turning even redder.

Snape smiled. "You think you're very clever, don't you, Potter. Spying on your teachers, interfering in matters beyond what your small brain could even begin to comprehend. However would we survive without Harry James Potter to investigate Dark wizards and save the day?"

"I've always wondered," mused Harry aloud, feeling his interest sparked for the first time in days, "about why so many wizarding families repeat the names of their ancestors. Almost everyone in my grade has the same middle name as their father or their mother. Is it because of the presence of ghosts in wizarding society, or because of the paintings? Do paintings have some measure of the subject's soul in them? I know wizarding painters are reluctant to release their secrets, though I suspect they might mix some aspect of the subject into the paint when working. Regardless, I think I would rather have had my own name instead of my middle name being my father's. I've never met him, and though he may have been nice as far as I know, his most memorable addition to the family is really just dying."

"You constantly react the opposite of how I expect you to. Do you take pleasure in frustrating me?"

"Oh." Harry focused back on Snape. "Do you want me to argue, sir? I can. I do disagree that I'm attention-seeking. I prefer to think of it as knowledge-seeking instead. But it wouldn't make sense to expend the effort--- you've never changed your mind about a student before that I've seen, and I doubt you will change your mind about me."

At that, Snape's face was overtaken with the most contrary of expressions. Scowling, eyebrows deep gashes on his lined forehead, he snapped, "Oh, read the book I've left on your desk, Potter, and I want to see your notes before you go. It should catch you up on all you've missed in your gadding about this year."

Harry settled down quite happily with the book, but didn't miss Snape's repeated glares, directed to the crown of Harry's bowed head.

When he went back to the common room, he found Blaise sitting beside Luna, braiding her long hair into a crown. His fingers wove in and out, smoothly twisting the strands of her cornsilk hair together. Luna had a vague, soft smile on her face and she was reading a thick book about mystical beasts of Atlantis.

Harry sighed, gave up, and sat beside them.

"Draco is spying on me for his father."

"I know," Blaise said, pinning Luna's last strand into place with a jeweled pin. "I'm not as unintelligent as you seem to think. I knew as soon as he said his father was going to send him to Durmstrang-- the Malfoys would never do that. They've gone to Hogwarts for centuries, and if they were going to send a child of the line out of England, they would send him to Beauxbatons. I also talked with him after your alchemy lesson, and we've come to the agreement that he can talk to you again as long as you promise to continue telling him absolutely nothing about what is going on. You would know, if you bothered to talk to me all day. This is really just one more bit of pureblood etiquette. Eventually, your friends are all going to have to decide whether they're willing to kill you. I've already decided in your favor," he added.

"Really, a poor show on your part, Harry," Luna said companionably. "All's well that ends well; you've made much ado about nothing, though I'm sure you'll do as you like in the end. The Dark Lord certainly does."

Harry and Blaise exchanged a look, somewhat alarmed. There was always more to Luna than met the eye, but how did she know about the Dark Lord?

Luna laughed at them, her eyes bright. "I should tell you sometime about my and Father's travels in Albania, and my mother's experiments." She smiled. "We're going to be great friends, Harry. The best. But first we really must stop all of this midsummer night dreaming."

"What." Blaise's tone was completely flat.

Luna just shook her head. Getting up, she wandered over to peer at a chess board that a group of girls was gathered around. They all glared at her.

"Don't even say it, Loony," one of them, a pretty black girl, warned. "No one wants your opinion on how the match is going to end, so just shut it."

"Ah, don't be so shrewish. It makes your face quite unpleasant. I was only curious. I need to get my homework anyway." Luna headed up the staircase.

Harry frowned. "She mentioned dreams before, but it's nowhere close to midsummer."

"For once, I know something you didn't manage to catch. This is a moment to savor."

"Well?"

 "Almost everything she was saying was referencing a play by Shakespeare. His lover was a wizard, you know."

"But what does it _mean_? And why Shakespeare?"

Smiling, Blaise said, "No clue. Let's play Exploding Snap with Draco in the Night Room, shall we? I think your Ravenclaws are getting sick of me popping in their common room."

 

* * *

 

The next day was packed from start to finish, with solid blocks of classes that gave no chance for rest, and no promise of it later on due to Astronomy at midnight. Worse than even the classes, though, were the moments between when he remembered to miss Surana. Even Whisper could definitively tell something was wrong at this point, keeping up a low, worried hiss all day long.

After Potions, he escaped outside instead of heading to lunch. The cool November air was bracing, and for one blessed moment, it wiped his mind clean of worry.

Hermione Granger was crying in front of Hagrid's cabin.

Harry didn't know Hermione very well, but telling off one of your friends for someone made you more inclined to want to see him or her happy. He walked over hesitantly. Over her head, the half-giant groundskeeper, Hagrid, shot Harry a panicked look. He was patting the sobbing girl on the shoulder, great, heavy pats that almost made her buckle.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

Hermione took one look at him and seemed to cry harder. "Sorry, sorry." She began swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

"Draco's not giving you trouble still, is he? Because if he is, I'll wallop him one, I promise."

"No, he's been fine. It's…" She burst into a fresh set of tears, leading Hagrid to dig in his pockets for a handkerchief frantically. "It's  _Ron_." She said this last word at a wail. "He… I realise that his brother is sick, and they're all upset. But we broke up before that anyway because he's  _awful_  and wants me to do all his homework for him and gets mad if I don't. But he has no excuse to be as mean as he's being. He's saying that it might be the Muggleborns' fault that all the disappearances have been going on. The people in the Ministry that disappeared were all known Muggle Rights supporters. But then I reminded him of the ghosts, and he said it was just a decoy, and he wasn't surprised I didn't know, since all I care about is worthless academics. Worthless! And he wonders why he does so badly!"

At this point, Harry was a little glazed, but Hagrid just looked long-suffering. Clearly, this was not the first time he had heard about all of Ron's sins.

"There, there, Hermione," Hagrid said, a bit pathetically.

"I don't understand. Aren't the Weasleys Muggle rights activists themselves?" Harry asked. "Draco complains about it. A lot."

"They are, which is why I don't understand why he has to be so awful." Hermione blew her nose loudly on the pink and yellow polka dot handkerchief that Hagrid had produced from one pocket. "And here I am, babbling at you when I'm sure you want to get to lunch and you barely know me."

"It's all right." Harry's mind was making an awkwardly-timed leap from the disappearances to Muggle Rights activists to Percy Weasley's coma, but he didn't have time to pursue it now. "Ron will come round, I'm sure. He can't be a berk forever, not in that family. If Percy heard him, he would set Ron to straights. Not," Harry added thoughtfully, "that I think Ron would listen to him. Percy's a bit of a stuffed shirt, even according to Penelope."

Hermione offered Hagrid the handkerchief back and, uncomfortably, he took it. "That's right. I heard you were friends with Percy."

It was unfortunate, but most people seemed to believe that now. Harry wouldn't have minded being Percy's friend-- it was just that he wasn't, and the lie grated.

"More like, I'm friends with his girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater. She's in Ravenclaw."

"Good sorts, both of 'em," said Hagrid. "World's a bit poorer with Percy in that coma, for all that he could be a bit stiff."

"They are," Harry agreed. "If you're feeling better, lunch is almost over. We should probably head back."

"Yes, thank you, Hagrid."

"Nice to see you, Hagrid," Harry said politely before they headed back.

"Hagrid's been a great comfort," Hermione said. "He showed me and my parents to Diagon Alley, you know. McGonagall was going to, but was otherwise occupied. I know he seems a bit... rough, but he's ever so kind."

"The right sort." Harry was only half-paying attention, trying to piece something of the puzzle around Percy together, but not quite managing. It was there, right there, if only he could add it all up and make the right sum.

"Yes, exactly. Oh!"

At her exclamation, Harry looked up. There was a portly man, a bit balding with robes that didn't precisely fit scurrying after a flashy blonde woman with a towering hair-do and green horn-rimmed spectacles. They disappeared into the castle in a huff.

"Who was that?" Harry asked, perturbed. The castle almost never got visitors.

"Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge! Don't you read?" She caught Harry's incredulous expression and blushed. "Newspapers, I suppose. I know you read everything else."

"I prefer my history to be at least five hundred years old. Current affairs aren't my thing." Though the integration of the Ministry of Magic into the overarching Muggle government interested Harry to no end. It was said that even some parts of the Muggle government had grown to become slightly magical, but not in a way that really affected the Ministry of Magic or that the Muggles were willing to admit to.

"I wonder why he's here. It must be about the ghosts, but maybe he's asking the Headmaster for advice about something. There's a rumor that he often asks Dumbledore for advice about matters of the wizarding world. I don't put much stock in rumors, but maybe it's true."

Harry considered it for a moment, then shrugged. Minister Fudge's presence could hardly have anything to do with the Dark Lord, after all, so he wasn't sure he cared to wonder about the man's visit. It couldn't possibly affect _him_.

Harry managed to convince Hermione to sit with the Ravenclaws at lunch, where she got into a lively debate with Padma about conjurations.

"Oh, this is ever so much more interesting than the Gryffindor table!" she declared at the end of the meal, then flushed when they laughed at her.

"You can be our honorary Ravenclaw," Anthony told her warmly. He caught Harry's gaze for a second, smiling, but Harry's return smile was a little distant. He was remembering all the charms and hexes wizards had to repel snakes, as well as the multitude of dark curses that weren't too picky about their subject.

He had Arithmancy and History of Magic at the end of the day. Professor Vector declared him distracted and set him to reviewing the concept of null, one of the most basic concepts in Arithmancy, and a major component to the creation of wizarding space. After such a trying day, detention with Snape was almost a relief.

It was even more of a relief when he saw what was curled up in a glass case on Snape's desk, hissing like mad.

"Surana!"

Harry rushed over to the desk and placed a hand on the case. Almost desperately, she butted her head against the same glass. Harry could barely heard her through the glass, only catching the edges of her sentences.

"How did you find her, sir?"

Snape, looking bemused, vanished the glass. Surana instantly crawled up Harry's arm and draped herself around his neck.

"Oh, Ssssspeaker it wassss _awful_. Are you still in one piece? Still whole...?"

"She was trapped in the walls by a ring of hexes and dark enchantments. I won't speculate the origin. You should take better care of your things, Potter."

Harry regarded him gravely. "She's not a thing, sir, but thank you. I... I don't know what I would do without her."

"Sentiment, Potter. You still have detention today, and tomorrow. I want extensive notes on creating the Pepper-Up Potion and restorative potions in the same class, and I require that all of the spare stirring rods are polished to spotlessness."

Harry nodded and got to work. He was sure he was imagining the ruddy, embarrassed flush on Snape's cheeks. Snape had done something _nice_.

"Does she know anything about the ghosts, or has this little ordeal been worthless?"

"Surana?"

Surana shuddered, tucking herself close to Harry's skin. "It wassss _dreadful_. Up close, you can still smell it on him. He wanted to kill me, but I bit him and he let me go. I esssssscaped."

"Smell what?"

"He was posssssssesssssed once." She shuddered even more, her tongue flicking out against Harry's neck. "Nasty. Tastes like vampires smell, like grave dirt. He's not possessed anymore, maybe not for a while. It moved."

Harry looked up to see what Snape made of that, but Snape still looked impatient. Of course, he didn't speak Parseltongue, so he wouldn't have understood.

"What about the ghosts?"

"He's very pleased. He fire-called someone, but I couldn't see who. Don't ssssend me back!"

"Never." Harry looked at Snape again. Seriously, he said, "Albania."

"What are you on about now, Potter?"

"Albania. Professor Quirrell went there to further his studies, didn't he? He was a Muggle Studies professor, then the Defense professor, then he took a year off and went to Albania. Luna Lovegood and her father were in Albania researching for her father's newspaper, since there was something else there. Something else was in Albania too, a dark thing. Surana says that Quirrell was possessed once, but he's not anymore. He changed-- he's more confident, less scared of his own shadow. I think that his behavior was a lie, to draw attention off the fact that he was possessed. People have been lying a lot to me lately, so I wouldn't be surprised to find a few more. So I can conclude that the Dark Lord rose again over the summer, after he stole the Philosopher's Stone, and somehow both Quirrell and Lucius Malfoy were part of it."

"Funnily, I think I like Quirrell more now that he isn't a sniveling coward and is, in fact, capable of deceiving multiple people, including the Headmaster, for years." Snape's words were more to himself than to Harry, but Harry nodded anyway.

"Me too. She also says that Quirrell fire-called someone and was pleased about the ghosts disappearing, but didn't know who he called on."

Snape nodded thoughtfully. "Proceed with your detention, Potter," he said, waving Harry away. "I must think. If she reveals anything else, tell me immediately."

Harry smiled, rubbing Surana's head. "Funny, sir. I thought _I_ was the spymaster, not you."

Snape's look was not amused, so Harry picked up his books agreeably. Knowledge was power; he was glad that he wasn't in the dark about what was happening, even if Snape wanted to have the information as well. It was actually somewhat relieving to give the knowledge to an adult and not have to deal with it himself. After all, who would expect a twelve-year-old to fight a Dark Lord all on their own? It was hardly a sane expectation.

 

* * *

 

On Friday, Harry couldn't wait to leave the castle to go to Saint Mungo's. Surana was so clingy after her ordeal that he had finally been able to convince her to brave the Floo. He hoped that she would be able to tell him something more about Percy or his condition. Harry was still trying to figure out just what it was that was bothering him about Percy and the whole Dark Lord situation.

"You're happier than I've seen you all week!" Penelope said as they took the familiar path through Saint Mungo's halls.

"It's a good day," Harry said, stroking Surana's head. Surana hadn't hidden herself under his robes or in his pocket since she had come back, which meant that his double block of Defense with the Hufflepuffs and Transfigurations with the Gryffindors that morning had been awful, or it would have been if he wasn't so happy she was safe. In Defense, Justin Finch-Fletchley had shot him horrified, disgusted looks, and soon fell to whispering with Ernie MacMillian. Quirrell hadn't looked too pleased either, a perturbed look on his face and his fingers constantly fidgeting at his wand.

In Transfigurations, Ron Weasley had screamed and fallen from his chair, prompting an irritated "Honestly!" from Hermione. Hermione had promptly switched seats with Ron so that she was closer to Harry and Ron could cower from the safety of a distant location. Her new partner, Neville Longbottom, seemed to appreciate the change. All during class period, Hermione peppered Harry with questions about Surana, who preened under the attention. Harry was starting to quite like the Gryffindor girl, even though she flew off the handle a little too easily for Harry's taste. Despite all this, Harry's good mood was unshaken.

"Maybe it will be a good day for Percy as well," Penelope said hopefully. "In just a couple more weeks, it will have been exactly half a year since the coma began. He can only get better, right?"

But Percy was the same, pale and growing increasingly frail-looking with every week that passed. All of the color had bleached out of his face, and even his hair seemed less brilliant than before.

"Do you smell anything on him?" Harry asked Surana quietly, when Penelope was distracted by telling Percy about her homework.

Surana shook her head, rubbing it back and forth under Harry's chin. "No…. well, ssssomething. But I can't place it. Sorry, Speaker."

Penelope left disheartened, and Harry left frustrated.

His last detention was almost a let-down, Snape saying nothing and staring the entire time, fingers steepled below his chin as he thought. It was a relief for the detentions to be over. It meant that everything was finally getting somewhat back to normal in the castle after this hectic week.

_That night, Harry dreamed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These action-packed chapters are seriously and sincerely stressing me out. It was essentially all just dealing with the fallout of last chapter, but it somehow felt like everything was exploding the entire time I was writing it. It didn't help that editing it from the handwritten version ballooned it up a good four thousand words.
> 
> Thoughts I had while writing:  
> * Poor Anthony. He keeps trying to gain Harry's attention, but all Harry can think about is quantum physics and world politics.  
> * Luna is still the best part of my life. It's too soon to consider pairings for her, but I can't help but think that no one in this fic is worthy of her. The one thought I've had is a little insane, and I shan't speak it in case I decide to do it. (Umbridge would not approve this pairing.)  
> * Harry just very neatly managed to use reverse psychology on Snape without meaning to, and I wonder if he'll ever realize what he did.  
> * In my original plot notes, no one suspected what Lucius was trying to pull by threatening to send Draco to Durmstrang until Draco told them. However, Draco is an awful liar and can't carry out a plan at all, as book six proved. I would find it more interesting for Draco to successfully pull of his own lie than it would be for Draco to successfully lie for his father.


	18. [Year Two] In Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally realises that he's sharing dreams with the Dark Lord, and received more lessons as a result. Fortunately, he's a Ravenclaw.

It was quiet after the debacle of All Hallow's Eve, for just over a full month. Classes continued, and people gradually grew used to not having the ghosts wandering around. The Daily Prophet printed a number of scandalous news stories that had nothing to do with ghosts, as well as a few pieces early on from a Rita Skeeter about an interview between her, the Minister of Magic, and Headmaster Dumbledore about Dumbledore's lax warding and how this had led to the ghosts of Hogwarts disappearing. Nothing about the missing ghosts of the several wizarding villages, Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade were ever mentioned again, and the disappearance of the Ministry officials may as well have not happened at all. The only thing that was printed further about it was when Tom Riddle, the new personal assistant to the Minister of Magic, assured the press that everything was under control. His photograph in the Daily Prophet barely moved, solemn, handsome, and intelligent as he calmly debunked the press' wilder theories.

Harry's lessons on alchemy continued and grew more interesting, especially once he started reading the primers on ancient runes and, pairing it with what he was learning in Defense about the summoning of demons and the drawing of wards, drew his first transmutation circle. If Quirrell was a little sharper, a little more amused, a little less careful-- no one but Harry would have known. Similarly, Snape was all eyes, watching Harry so closely that Harry was half-sure that the Potions professor was following him around the castle. Harry would turn a corner and there Snape would be, meting out punishments to snogging fifth-years or questioning a nervous-looking Peeves. Besides Peeves, only the Grey Lady, who was Ravenclaw's ghost, and the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost, remained. Peeves, being a poltergeist, didn't have bones to burn, which was probably why he had been saved, though Harry did wonder where the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron had died that their bones were so inaccessible.

Harry continued not sleeping well, waking frequently in cold sweats with only half-remembered dreams licking around the corners of his mind. The only time he managed a decent sleep was when he napped next to Blaise in the Night Room while Blaise and Draco argued passive-aggressively about Draco's father. It seemed like the only conversations that could be had with Draco lately were arguments, especially since he had taken to taunting the youngest Weasley, Ginny, at every opportunity, often leaving the girl in tears.

It was on one such occasion of napping, Harry buried in a nest of blankets beside the wood stove in the Night Room, that he dreamed the end of life as he knew it. Of course, he didn't know it was the end of life as he knew it-- such things come up on you sneakily, a cat to a mouse, and you only realise them in retrospect.

_The manor was growing colder, caught in a blast of wintery winds like a house in a snow globe. Voldemort had been to many of these manors in his day, and the Malfoy Manor was nowhere near the most pleasant. He had seen this same manor in the time of Abraxas Malfoy, and had lived with the man for months much the same way he had lived with Lucius. His time with Abraxas had been far more comfortable. Abraxas had been a man with vision, and Voldemort had been as fond of Abraxas as he was capable of. Nagini, of course, hated the manor, and her stream of complaints was growing increasingly pathetic. She had buried herself in the fireplace of the sitting room, which he had charmed for her to heat but not burn. Truthfully, she hated the entire manor, but their time was ending here soon enough._

_Quirinus Quirrell had finally managed to sneak away from his post at the castle and would be met at the wards by Lucius at any moment. The unfortunate fact was that Quirrell was growing increasingly ineffective at providing useful information within the walls of Hogwarts. He was kept out of every important meeting due to Dumbledore's meddling._

_Voldemort watched Lucius' tall, pale figure sweep through the hedges and make his way across the French gardens, matched by the dark and dramatic stride of Quirrell. They were striking side-by-side, one light where the other was shadow, one aristocratic and refined where the other was poisonous and sly. It was one of the things Voldemort liked best about Quirrell. The man was like a snake in all the best of ways._

_The two disappeared into the manor and Nagini began to hiss lowly, almost a hum, as they approached through the hallways. Voldemort continued looking out over the gardens. There was a full moon, hanging low over the snow-covered grounds. It made him remember days shut up in the orphanage in London, far back in his youth, when there had never been enough warmth while bombs raged overahead and no one cared enough to send an orphan to the countryside._

_"My Lord?"_

"Harry?"

_The voice was Lucius', carefully polite. Voldemort turned and locked eyes with Quirrell. The Defense professor bowed shortly. His ears were ever so slightly pointed, a throwback from the high elf blood that the Quirrells had claimed for at least a hundred years to have. His other half was a common Muggle family, Smith or Jones or something equally ridiculous. "You are outliving your usefulness, Quirrell," Voldemort said lightly._

"You should really wake up, Harry. Come on."

_Quirrell's gaze sharpened, his head cocking to one side. "No. I am still useful to you, and I think you have an idea of how. I only need for you to tell me how best I can serve you, if there's no longer any reason for me to be at the castle."_

_"I'll need another reliable spy in Hogwarts eventually," Voldemort mused. His gaze fell on Lucius. "I have some thoughts already._

_He smiled at Quirrell, feeling perhaps as fond as he ever felt-- which was to say, glad that he had found a reason not to kill the man. "I'll need you to go back to Albania. You'll need to leave right away, before Dumbledore realises what we have planned."_

_He felt the oddest twitch, then-- a ghost of a sensation, like someone was shaking him. He frowned and began strengthening his Occlumency barriers. Now, who was peering over his--_

Harry woke, clutching his forehead as a barrage of Occlumency shields beat against his forehead. It was tearing him apart, tearing his mind in half-- it had to be, had to-- Voldemort was--

"Harry! Breathe!"

How? Harry wasn't sure he could remember how. He didn't think that was something people did.

There was a hand on his chest, hands on his shoulder, one brushing through his hair to peer at his head. He focused on the flurry around him rather than the screaming in his ears, tinny and pained, his very soul shuddering and writhing in pain. The pain began to dim as he focused on the outward rather than the inward. He could gradually see Blaise and Draco crouched over him. There were giant shadows edging in on his vision, but he could see the terrified look on Blaise and Draco's faces.

"Get me my bag. A paper, a pen."

"What?" Blaise's voice was incredulous. "Are you all right?"

"Now!" Harry yelled, and the volume sent the pain crashing through his head again. By the time his vision began to clear again, there was a pen and paper in his hand. His handwriting was shaky as it looped up and down the page:

_Abraxas Malfoy.Quirrell leaving? Going where? Has to leave now. Not… relevant? Useful? What's not useful? Him or where he's going, or what he's doings? Snakes. One snake? Two? Voldemort speaks to snakes? Why was he thinking about the Malfoys? It was snowing. He was sending Quirrell to Albania. Why does everything happen in Albania?_

Harry looked up, flipping the paper over. "Draco, you need to leave."

Draco stiffened. "Are you actually serious? You just collapsed with pain and you want me to _leave_?"

Harry just kept looking at him. "Draco, you _need_ to leave." He caught Draco's eye and held it; slowly, Draco nodded, gathering his things and leaving quickly.

Everything in the room spun as Harry struggled to his feet. His head was pounding still. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, thrumming like a drum and slamming in his chest.

"We need Professor Snape," Harry said, leaning heavily against Blaise to get up. The other boy wrapped his arm tight around Harry's shoulder and Harry listed against him, resting most of his weight on Blaise rather than his own feet. "I think I can see Voldemort in my dreams."

 

* * *

 

"I've been dreaming, but I haven't been remembering them," was how Harry decided to start out. This wasn't the greatest method of beginning the conversation, since it caused Professor Snape's eyebrows to shoot up into that half-condescending, half-"the child is clearly stupid" expression that he usually wore when dealing with Neville Longbottom.

"Yes, that is the nature of dreams. So why are we meeting this late, exactly? What was so important that it couldn't possibly hold until tomorrow?" Snape's fingers stroked along the edge of his desk; he probably didn't realise that he was doing it, but it was a bad habit of his, an almost hedonistic enjoyment of his own cruelty.

"I dreamed at least twice before. I've been feeling strange for a couple of months. One of the dreams--" Harry frowned, ducking his head. "--there was smoke. So much fire and smoke, and it was right before the ghosts disappeared. I think… could it be that their bones were burnt? How could the Dark Lord possibly find all the bones to all the ghosts in Britain?"

Snape was silent and didn't answer, but Blaise was looking ferociously displeased and reached out a hand to grasp Harry's. Harry flushed, thrown off-track when he felt Blaise's fingers twine through his. Dudley would have said something so horrible if he saw them, and worse would have been Vernon's reaction. Dyed hair and motorbikes caused enough problems if the Dursleys saw them, but two boys holding hands? ("Sissies," Uncle Vernon would have scoffed, shaking his head.)

Harry put the thought away for later consideration and continued, "The dream today, Quirrell was meeting with the Dark Lord. He was being… reassigned? moved? away from Hogwarts for some reason. He was going to be going back to Albania instead."

"And you believe this to be something that actually happened?" Snape's tone more civil than acid for once, and he seemed honestly curious. "And why exactly is that?"

Blaise's thumb ran over Harry's knuckles, his brown skin warm against Harry's chilled hands. Harry found himself watching the hypnotic movement as he remembered the desperate pain of being severed away from the Dark Lord's mind. "I was half-awake. I was half in my own mind, half in his. I _was_ him. And then he strengthened his Occlumency shields, and I was waking up-- it hurt." He met Snape's eyes, and found that he couldn't look away. The black gaze bore into him, sending his bruised mind screaming again. Deliberately, Snape blinked and Harry could move again.

"Very well. There's a simple way to check. Let us see if Quirrell is anywhere to be found."

He wasn't. He wasn't there the next morning, either. There was a double-block of Defense Against the Dark Arts on Friday mornings, but Perenelle Flamel instead took over, covering a number of things that Professor Quirrell had not-- namely, why you should avoid summoning demons at absolutely all costs, and the dangers of using a summoning circle in the same location multiple times without giving the Earth time to recover. Harry found it fascinating, but his notes would have been better if he hadn't spent a night forcing himself to stay awake, trying not to wonder why he had enjoyed so much the feeling of Blaise's hand against his, and eventually burying the half-embarrassed, half-elated feeling under a slew of dream magic and Occlumency texts.

Following the Defense lessons, Harry had a brief lunch and then had to relate his dreams to Headmaster Dumbledore while more than half-asleep. Fawkes perched on Harry's shoulder, preening through his hair. Harry stroked down the phoenix's long tail, smiling a little before he turned to the grave headmaster. "I've been having dreams that I can't remember much. I know I have them, since I spend the entire day afterward feeling like there's something important I should be remembering." He paused, holding out a biscuit crumb to Fawkes, who took it carefully from his palm. "The one after the ghosts disappeared bothered me for days-- I kept smelling smoke all over, but nothing was burning."

"Is this relevant?" Professor Snape interjected. His jaw was clenched, which wasn't something that Harry had thought people did outside of novels. Harry regarded him with dazed interest for a moment, too tired to censure himself into not staring as Snape's nostrils flared.

"Harry," Dumbledore reminded gently.

Harry shook off the weariness and continued. "My dream last night was… I've been trying to put it together again, since my notes didn't make much sense. They were in Wiltshire, in the Malfoy Manor. I know because--" _-_ _-She crept through the garden on her belly, sliding over loose gravel, moss--_ "--because of the gardens." Harry could remember feeling cold against his scales as he moved through the Malfoy's garden, shivering in the Manor's halls, but why would he go into the mind of a snake? Was it because he was a Parselmouth? Why was he going into the Dark Lord's mind to begin with, and how, considering how powerful the man likely was? "They're very distinctive. He was with Quirrell and Lucius Malfoy, who I think he kept comparing unfavorably to Abraxas Malfoy. He liked Abraxas. Umm…. Quirrell. He thought Quirrell wasn't doing enough here, I think. Or maybe I got that from context. He decided to send him to Albania again." Harry closed his eyes, trying to figure out why, but he could only recall a deep sense of smugness and glee. "I can't remember why."

"Is there anything else you can tell me, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, peering at Harry over steepled fingers and half-moon spectacles. Harry shook his head.

"I don't think so. Wait. Gragsnarks!"

"Gragsnarks?" Dumbledore and Snape said the word at the same time, but Dumbledore's tone was mild and Snape's was positively scathing.

Harry nodded. "Luna said that the dark presence in Albania had left because the Gragsnarks were coming back to the area."

"Really, Potter--"

"I know they aren't real," Harry interrupted. "Or no one knows about them, anyway. But Luna knows things, and if she said that the dark thing in the forests of Albania left, that means that there's no… fragment of the Dark Lord left in Albania, so that can't be what he's sending Quirrell for."

Harry was so tired, but something about fragments-- "Is fragment right? How could that be right? He can't possess someone unless he was a disembodied soul, and a soul can't be split into fragments, can it? So there can't be a fragment of soul left anywhere anyway, since he was possessing Quirrell last year. I must mean he couldn't have left a dark object in Albania, unless it was powerfully shielded, because otherwise the Gragsnarks wouldn't have come back. Sorry-- I didn't sleep last night. I'm not making much sense."

Dumbledore smiled, patient with Harry's babble. "Thank you for all your help, Mr. Potter. You know about the concept of Occlumency, Professor Snape told me?"

Distracted, Harry nodded. "Yes, headmaster," he said.

"Professor Snape is a very accomplished Occlumencer. Because of this, I was hoping you would be willing to take lessons with him to learn to guard your mind."

"But isn't it better to know what the Dark Lord is thinking? I could work on remembering, keep a dream journal or begin practicing dream magic--"

Surana spoke for the first time during the conversation, her soft, murmuring hiss tense as she said, "Doors go both waysss, Speaker. If you can see into the Dark Lord's mind, he can see into yours."

"Ah, never mind then," Harry said. "I would love to take Occlumency."

"What did your lovely snake say?" Dumbledore asked curiously, watching as Surana settled back down against Harry's neck, carefully avoiding Fawkes' feet on Harry's shoulder.

"'Doors go both ways,'" Harry reported distractedly. Snape must have told Dumbledore that he was a Parselmouth, or the Flamels had, because he was sure he hadn't told Dumbledore himself. "When would the lessons be? I have Alchemy with Professor Flamel on Mondays, and I visit Percy Weasley on Fridays. Thursday is Astronomy, so I try to sleep as soon as I can after regular classes end for the day, to make up for the lost time."

"Professor Snape?"

Snape made a face. "I help with seventh-year projects on Wednesdays, and on Tuesdays I work in the greenhouse."

"Friday evening?" Harry suggested. "Penelope and I usually go to visit Percy in the afternoon."

"That would be… acceptable," Professor Snape said, though he still didn't look pleased.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together, eyes twinkling with good cheer. "Very good. That makes it so your first lesson will be tonight."

Harry had hoped for a nap after his and Penelope's visit with Percy, but apparently that wasn't going to happen. Making a mental note to ask Madam Pomfrey for a Pepper-Up, Harry said, "Your office, Professor Snape?"

Snape nodded tersely.

"Headmaster, will Professor Flamel be our Defense instructor, then? She was brilliant this morning."

"Perhaps, if we can get the paperwork sorted. Although an acclaimed battlewitch, Perenelle's mastery in Defense pre-dates the current mastery system, so the Ministry may not allow it."

Harry stood and walked Fawkes over to the perch, allowing the phoenix to step gracefully of his shoulder. Greedily, Surana spread out and heaved a great sigh, making Harry hide a smile. "Is that all, then, professor? It's almost time for me and Penelope to head to Saint Mungo's."

"That's all, Mr. Potter, thank you." Harry moved to leave, but as he did, Dumbledore said, "And Harry?" Harry gave him a curious look over his shoulder. "Please refrain from having your snake spy on any more teachers' meetings."

Harry blushed. "I'll do my best, headmaster," he managed, and beat a hasty retreat.

 

* * *

 

The weeks went on in a blur of gossip and unease that eventually transmuted into a constant, low-level fear. People kept disappearing all over the country, and Professor Quirrell's disappearance had hit perilously close to home for many of the students. Though the papers were trying to limit mentioning the subject, the sheer number of stories was forcing their hand. With the number of Muggle rights activists who had been disappearing, as well as Muggleborns and half-bloods, the Muggleborn population in the school was particularly terrified. Justin Finch-Fletchley had been even more abrasive than usual during Defense, not least because Perenelle had told him that if he didn't participate, he was getting a Troll and Harry was getting an Outstanding by default.

"The ley lines are disturbed enough by all of this fluctuation in energy," she had scolded. "I don't need to be dealing with shale-brained students while trying to keep the lines running smoothly."

She had been deemed a fine substitute professor, but wouldn't be allowed to continue past that unless she took her mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts, since her current hundred year old certificate wouldn't suffice. It was a shame, because she was an excellent teacher. Not always of just Defense either.

Curious, Harry asked, "Just what are ley lines, anyway? I've heard them come up before, but the books seem a bit confused about what they're describing.

"Lines of power that run throughout the world," she grunted. "They're like a river of molten-hot energy, the heart-blood of a country or area. Everything that goes on affects them, and of course Hogwarts is sitting on a huge node considering its importance in the wizarding world."

The Muggleborns, the disappearances, and the changes in staff aside, Harry was getting worn out from his extra lessons and heavier-than-normal course load. He wasn't the only one feeling stretched thin, either.

"I've been having to prescribe Dream-Away to many students," Madam Pomfrey confessed one of the times that Harry was waiting in the infirmary so that he and Penelope could use the Floo. Over the weeks since they had first met, he was finding the Mediwitch wonderful to talk to. She loved discussing medical magic, and the information she gave was always useful. "Anxiety, you know?" she said. "The whole situation is causing nightmares, and Dream-Away is a very mild variant on Dreamless Sleep."

The conversation after that had become highly academic.

As Yule approached once again, two letters came in the mail one morning over breakfast. Blaise headed to Harry from the Slytherin table the moment he saw the letters, carrying his plate with him and jumping over one of the Weasley twins' outstretched feet. One letter was an invitation to Malfoy Manor, filled with Narcissa Malfoy's beautiful, flowing script inviting him to the annual party. The other was from Madam Zabini.

 

 _My dear boys,_ she said.

 

_Blaise, dreadful spawn of my loins, you never write to me, but at least of the two of you, Harry is responsible, and I know that you will get this._

_I'm sure that you are now receiving the invitation to the Yule party at Malfoy Manor. We are obligated to go due to our position in society. You are coming to Italy, of course, Harry, in case my foolish son hasn't told you. All appropriate permissions have been obtained, and I've actually managed to arrange things so that, until legal matters proceed further, you have permanent permission to come home with Blaise on all school breaks except the summer one._

 

Harry looked up here. "Legal matters?" he whispered.

Blaise smiled innocently, eyes half-lidded. Harry had largely managed to forget the hand-holding incident, but when Blaise smiled like that, it made his stomach flop. "I wouldn't worry about it, Harry. When she's ready for you to know, she'll tell you. Until then, feel free to spend all your time thinking about alchemic potions and ways to transmute water into wine." Harry rolled his eyes.

_We will not be staying the night, and instead will head to our house in London, and then to Positano. The owls and the garden both miss you, Harry, and Blaise, the library wants for organisation. I don't trust Harry not to get distracted, so you're really my only hope, since I haven't the slightest head for filing._

_Perhaps you are unaware, but I have recently decided to remarry. However, my betrothed will be away for most of the holidays, and I don't believe you'll have a chance to meet. If you do, I'm sure you'll find him an upstanding gentleman in every way._

_May the shadows grace you,_

Blaise sighed. "Upstanding is her code for unbearable," he explained. "He'll likely be dead by summer hols, so I wouldn't worry about it."

Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he also didn't know if he could put it off any longer. "What does she… do with them, exactly?" he asked, a little uncomfortable.

"It's because of what she is," Blaise said, spearing a tidbit of fried egg. He seemed troubled, despite his affable tone. "She's a crossroads witch. It was fortunate I was born a boy and that in her family, it tends to carry through the female line."

"Crossroads witch? As in, deals with the devil?"

"Demons," Blaise corrected. "The crossroads witches in my family are born with a connection to a demon, though it's not usually realised until the witch is thirteen or fourteen. It makes them more powerful, but the connection is only fully controllable if the witch experiences true love's kiss. So Mother keeps marrying and hoping for the best, and then when it fails to work…."

Dreadfully fascinated, Harry leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his eyes wide. "Does she kill them, or does the demon?" he asked.

Blaise shrugged, unconcerned, as he popped another bite of egg in his mouth. "Some of both, depending on the circumstance. I'm all done. Do you want to get Draco so we can head on that walk like he wanted?"

Harry nodded and let himself be pulled up, but his head spun with the implications of witches and demons bound together at birth. Was it because of genetics, or an ancient curse? Did the demon's presence in Madam Zabini's life affect her personality in any way? Could she walk in another plane like a demon or elemental could? How did it affect her magic? Demons disrupted Earth magic heavily, according to Perenelle-- could Madam Zabini practice it even if she wanted to?

It took Harry far too long to realise that Blaise was forcibly steering him away from the Great Hall, but he couldn't help that magic was amazing. Thankfully, he would have plenty of time to research during the winter holiday. Provided that Lucius Malfoy wasn't actually hosting the Dark Lord and didn't, in fact, drag Harry into a room and kill him. But that was ridiculous. Such a thing would go against etiquette, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not, in fact, dead. I did have some tumultuous stuff happen IRL, however, and I am hopefully back now. We should all be thankful for how extensively I took notes and did the layouts for the upcoming chapters ahead of time, since normally it would take me much longer to get into the swing of things after an absence like this. Past-me thought ahead, guys!
> 
> Despite the hand-holding incident (as Harry called it), Harry and Blaise still have a few years to go on the relationship front, so apologies for that, but I think it's only reasonable to not make two characters fall into everlasting love at twelve. Of course, my compromise to my own shattering romanticism is that Harry ends up with a few crushes and only one other relationship besides Blaise. 
> 
> One question that I do want to ask is whether you think Blaise should be a crossroads mage like his mother. I have almost all of this fic plotted out, except Blaise's personal storyline. I've been struggling to come up with what I should do for him and this idea fell into my lap as I was writing this chapter, though I've been planning this aspect of Louisa's character all along. Note that this would affect Blaise's magic, but wouldn't make him a magical creature. I'm not overly fond of creature!fic and am more interested in developing the magic system. Please weigh in if you want, preferably with some why/why not explanations.
> 
> On another note, one of the things that I was working on during the hiatus was a new fic! I just started posting Rocket Queen, a Sherlock fic where a gender-flipped Sebastian Moran (who doubles as Mycroft's assistant, Anthea) teams up with Jim Moriarty and sets the criminal world on its head. It's full of British manners, high heels, and 80s music. Please go check it out-- I've put a lot of work into it and I'm very proud of it. Rocket Queen is complete, but being posted weekly on Fridays, in four parts. You shouldn't need to have seen the series to read the fic. (Simultaneously, there are spoilers for the whole series, so watch out.)


	19. [Year Two] Connections in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Riddle isn't a good man," Luna stated. "It's funny. Even his name itself is a riddle."
> 
> "I would wager that I know what it's a riddle for," said Blaise darkly.

Blaise, Madam Zabini, and Harry wound their way through the gardens at Malfoy Manor the night of the Yule party, their ears filled with the jingle from the bells of the bedraggled house elf that led the way. Harry stared up at the sky, his cheeks aching from the crisp, cold air. Last year, they had spent a couple of nights at the manor, but this year, Yule was a day earlier, and they had stayed at the house on Persephone Square instead when Madam Zabini had picked them up from the train station.

"I do prefer Positano," she had said as they walked through a bustling Diagon Alley on their way back from King's Cross, "but there is just something _about_ London in the winter time."

Harry had been almost unable to hear her; he was too busy staring. Wizarding London had gone through an amazing transformation since the summer. The shops were strewn with tiny glowing fairies that made their home under shops' eaves. A number of moving food carts trudged up and down the snowed-in streets, some on wheels and some drawn on sleighs by great silver harts that shook their antlered heads when they saw Harry watching. The smells wafting off of the carts were incredible. There were warm, rich gusts of roasting chestnuts that sang when you cracked them open; savory meat pies filled with ground lamb and carrots; delicate fried pastries spiced with curry and masala, filled with bits of potato and peas. This was not even mentioning the candy. There were clouds of ice-blue candy floss that actually flossed your teeth, a Granny Smith green chocolate that gave you green spots, and endless mugs of hot chocolate in every flavor variation imaginable.

The shop windows all had moving displays that flashed, flirted, and beckoned the shoppers inside, and Harry could barely resist the display of giant, teetering stacks of books where an enchanted quill wrote on a vast scroll interesting facts and information.

"Harry's gone, Mother," Blaise said with a chuckle. "If we shop, he'll probably buy the lot."

They were able to shop the next day for gifts, however, and then it was time to Floo into Wiltshire. Instead of Flooing directly into the Hearth Room, Madam Zabini had decided to Floo to the Gatehouse, so that they could take the scenic route up the gardens.

And it _was_ scenic. The trees were covered with glittering pastel lights, and there were flowers poking up through the snow in full bloom. Great white peacocks romped through the snow, glaring furiously at anything that happened in their path. However, Harry would have preferred the Hearth Room. The house elf that had been sent to greet them was pathetic, a shivering, sad-looking creature with a ragged pillowcase and strings of brass bells around his or her neck. The pillowcase was embroidered with a border of green holly around the bottom, which made the elf's eyes seem even greener. The green eyes were fringed with long eyelashes that were covered in snow, which no amount of blinking could seem to shake off.

"Do you know Dobby?" Harry asked the house elf quietly as Madam Zabini and Blaise argued about whether the wisteria tree nearby was a new addition or not.

The house elf blinked up at him rapidly. "Dobby? How does Master Harry Potter know Dobby? Jinka knows Dobby quite well, yes she does! A very strange elf-- Master Harry Potter shouldn't be associating with _him_ , no sir."

"Oh, we saw him last time we were at the Manor," Harry lied. He hoped that house elves weren't good at detecting liars, since he was pants at it. "He seemed like a good sort-- you think you could send him my way at some point tonight? When I'm alone, mind. I wouldn't want to disturb the other guests."

Jinka narrowed her eyes. "Hmph. If Master Harry Potter is _sure_ , sir. I suppose whatever sir wants."

They were at the front door now, where another house elf awaited, and Jinka stopped, bowing low. "Jinka will head back to the Gatehouse now. House elf Bink will announce you."

She was gone with a bang. Bink looked at them all gravely through a monocle. Unlike the other house elves, he wore a very fine curtain that had been arranged into the position of a long tunic. "Follow me, please."

He took them through the main hall of the manor and to the ballroom door quickly. Opening the door, he shouted out in a deep voice that boomed like thunder, "Lord Harry James Potter, Earl of Griffon's Nest, accompanied by Madam Louisa Arabella Zabini and Young Master Blaise Cosimo Zabini, of the Lavender House."

Harry decided, as a good dozen eyes turned to him, that he really didn't like being announced. Although he wanted very much to duck behind Blaise, he couldn't really do so with so many society witches and wizards looking at him. As they entered the ballroom, Lady Malfoy was on them immediately. She clasped Madam Zabini's hands and kissed both her cheeks, and shook both boys' hands with a warm grip that made her fragile smile seem kinder.

"The boys are in the back again," she told them. "I'm stealing your mother to accompany me about the room-- Lord Malfoy is sequestered in his study with many of the men, and it's grown dull to be hostess without a host."

"Am I to fill in as host, then?" Madam Zabini said laughingly.

"Of course, my dear," Lady Malfoy replied. "After all, I've known you longer than my husband, and you're far better company." The ladies linked arms and went to take a turn around the room, one pale blonde head bent over a smaller head with a cascade of dark curls.

Harry shook his head and, with Blaise, they went to see the other Hogwarts students in the back.

Harry was wearing Surana like a stole and Whisper was twined 'round his wrist like a bracelet; both hissed wordlessly when they were within a few feet of Draco and the rest of the boys.

"Blood, again," Surana spat with disgust.

"Nasty, dirty, mucky ssssmell," Whisper said, possibly the longest sentence that he had ever offered.

Draco was indeed very pale, wearing long robes that covered him head to toe and almost shaking as he lifted a glass of watered-down wine to his lips. Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle seemed less a guard and more of a crutch, bracing the other boy so that he could appear to be loitering beside the table. Theodore Nott was just watching with sharp eyes, lips thin, so it was clear Draco wasn't fooling anyone.

"Harry, Blaise!" Draco exclaimed. "You made it!"

"Of course," Blaise said, clasping his forearm to Draco's. Draco flinched, noticeably, when their forearms touched.

He had to _know_ this was stupid-- he was taking the lessons with Perenelle, and she was very clear about what good blood magic was and what bad blood magic was. Harry had caught the edges of enough of her lectures and heard the basics in Herbology enough that he knew that Draco should know not to do this.

Narcissa actually looked pale too, come to think of it, and very frail. Instead of blood, she had smelled heavily of gardenias, so much that Harry could still smell it even now.

"Had a productive holiday so far?" Blaise asked drolly.

"Yes, lovely. I-- I've been helping father quite a bit. He relies on me." Draco, finally, sat besides Nott. "Did you happen to see the new broom display in Diagon Alley?"

Blaise, easily distracted, started off, almost bouncing up and down as he detailed how incredible the display had been. Harry slipped into another of the chairs, looking around the room for familiar faces. The room seemed a bit sparse, actually, as most of those in it were women and children. The Parkinsons were chatting nearby with the Bulstrodes, and the formidable Verisimilitude Goyle, one of Vincent's aunts, was bearing down on a trapped-looking Michael Corner and his father.

"Watch the secondary entrance, in the corner there," Luna suggested. Harry squeaked, nearly jumping out of his seat; the girl was near-silent when she wanted to be. She just blinked at him, almost like Jinka except with vast blue eyes instead of green. "It's going to be very interesting to see who comes out of Lord Malfoy's study."

Putting himself together after the shock of her appearance, Harry reached over to pat the girl's hand. "Happy Yule, Luna," he said. "Have you been having a good holiday so far?"

She frowned. "It's only been a day since I saw you last. Or have I lost track of time again? I'm ever so bad at keeping track of time when I'm busy helping father with experiments."

"So you were helping your father? Anything interesting?"

Luna smiled dreamily. "We were testing what ratio of mold to moss is best to feed the Kingdref, a shadow-beast native to Beshaar. I think we've made progress. The Kingdrefs no longer explode, which is good since it was breaking Father's heart. Draco has been helping his father, too, you know, though I'm glad that _my_ father doesn't tell me to help with those kinds of experiments."

"Shut your mouth, Lovegood," Draco warned. His fingers were suddenly white around his wine glass.

Luna only stared at him. "Why? How would I eat my hors d'oeuvres?"

"Well, eat them _quietly_ , and without making any more little remarks about--"

Harry was distracted from the upcoming row by the sudden influx of people from Lord Malfoy's study. There were the elder Crabbe and Goyle, Snape, several men and a few women that Harry didn't recognize, and… was that the Minister of Magic's new assistant?

Tom Riddle was even more attractive in person than he was in his pictures. He looked as if he was in his mid- to late-thirties, but he had a boyish face, with straight black hair that was tied back at the nape of his neck. Harry had been reading several articles that the man had been putting out about the state of politics in wizarding Britain. They were articulate, and very well-thought out, with a dry sense of humor. Harry immediately wanted to pick the man's brain about his latest article, which had suggested that the Three Lords system was the cornerstone of the British Empire, and by not letting new Lords to rise naturally, more and more magical families are giving birth to squibs.

"You have your 'new book' face on, but there's no new book to be seen," Blaise said. He followed Harry's gaze and, after a moment, frowned. "That's Tom Riddle, isn't it?"

"Yes, he wrote these _interesting_ articles. He tied the Three Lords to the rise and fall of the British magical system. You reckon I can talk to him? Do I need to be introduced? Is that an etiquette thing?"

Nott's eyebrows rose. "You keep up with politics, Potter?"

"Not usually," Harry admitted, "but I like history, and his articles put current affairs together with all the history that makes up what's happening now."

"Do you really want to meet him?" Draco asked. His tone was a bit off, and he had the strangest expression on his face. "I can introduce you. He's been staying here until he's able to officially set up his house in England. He's… been abroad."

"Really?" Harry grinned. "You don't even have to give me a gift this year if you do."

Draco stood up. Harry's smile faltered a bit when he realised that Draco needed a hand up from Goyle, whose usually unreadable expression was veering from "stony" to "concerned stone golem."

"Come on, then," Draco said briskly.

Luna looped her arm quickly through Harry's. "I'll come too," she said when Draco gave her a glare. "Perhaps Mr. Riddle will want to write an article for Father. Do you think he knows anything about the living conditions for Dementors in Azkaban?"

Blaise was still arguing about the Wasps' last match with Crabbe when Draco wound his way through the room, Harry and Luna trailing after him, to where Mr. Riddle was talking with Lord Malfoy.

"Father, Mr. Riddle?"

The two men turned to him, Lord Malfoy's expression positively venomous until he saw Harry, whereupon he screwed it into something resembling a constipated harpy. "Yes, Draco?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Mr. Riddle, this is Harry James Potter, Earl of Griffon's Nest. Harry, this is Mister Tom Marvolo Riddle, personal assistant to the Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."

Mr. Riddle's gaze locked with Harry's, and it was electrifying. His eyes were red, bright as blood from a fresh wound, with the slightest lancing of brown through them that made them slightly less unnerving. As Harry's scar _screamed_ , the ear cuff he wore from Luna began to chime urgently.

Through the pain, Harry inclined his head. "Mr. Riddle," he said, voice tight with pain. "I made Draco introduce us-- your articles on magical history and current politics in Britain are incredible."

"Lord Potter. You understood them?" The man's dark brow quirked, and a wry smile curved the edges of his full mouth. Harry couldn't look away from the eyes boring into his, pain wracking through his head.

"Of course. I was raised by my mother's Muggle family, so I've been interested in magical history since I first learned I was a wizard. Your articles made me wonder your thoughts on the idea that the Three Lords were chained to the Earth. If you consider that when they supposedly first obtained their power, they were tied to British soil, likely over ley line nodes, it makes me think that the presence of the Lords, or lack thereof I suppose, could affect the ley lines, and because of that, cause a flux or wane of magical humans in the British Isles. That's assuming that you accept that the Lords were real, which not everyone seems to."

"That's very clever," Mr. Riddle said, smiling wider. His eyes still bore into Harry's, and Harry could hear the faintest echo of screams ringing through his head-- _\--"Not Harry!" a woman sobbed."Please…."--_ "Your mother's family didn't raise you to know you were a wizard? Your intelligence and drive are commendable, considering your upbringing. Where is this bastion of Muggle sensibilities located?"

Harry was about to reply, green light flickering in the corners of his vision, when Luna interjected, "Did you forget to introduce someone, Draco?" Mr. Riddle's gaze finally broke away from Harry's to look at the girl with irritation.

"Apologies. Mr. Riddle, this is Luna Lovegood, daughter of Xenophilius Lovegood, who is owner and editor of the Quibbler."

Mr. Riddle said some polite nothing and Harry felt light-headed. He brushed a finger beneath his nose and his blood came away on his fingertip, red as Mr. Riddle's impressive eyes, and through the pounding in his temples, he heard Surana's frantic whisper: "Get away from him, Sssspeaker. Get away get away get away right now. Go back to the Sleepy Boy. Go back now."

Mr. Riddle heard her too, staring at the snake, who had reared up so her head was next to Harry's ear. The snake bared her fangs.

Harry tilted his head. "You can understand her."

" _You_ can understand her?" Riddle asked. A veneer of calm stripped away, leaving a hard, ruthless tone to his cold voice. Lucius' face was painted with surprise, looking back and forth between his companion and Harry rapidly.

"Of course," Harry said dizzily. He stroked Surana's head gently. "Excuse me. I think I have to sit down. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Riddle."

He walked back over to his table, Luna's arm through his keeping him upright. Draco supported him as well, subtly straightening him when he nearly walked into a table. Tom Marvolo Riddle… T.M. Riddle… Harry had heard it before.

Blaise was at Harry's side the second he came into view again.

"What happened?" he asked, tilting Harry's chin up and rubbing ineffectually at the blood coming from Harry's nose and ears.

"Mr. Riddle isn't a good man," Luna stated, settling next to Nott gracefully. She stared at Draco from what had been his seat, lips thin. Draco met her eyes and, slowly, looked away. "It's funny. Even his name itself is a riddle."

"Bad, bad, bad man," Surana whispered, and Whisper echoed her with confused hisses from his place around Harry's wrist.

"I would wager that I know what it's a riddle for," said Blaise darkly. Harry leaned forward against him, head spinning.

"He's a Speaker," Surana said urgently. "There's only been one other British Speaker in the past fifty years. You know, Sssspeaker. You know."

Harry got to his feet shakily. "I'm going to the kitchens to see if the house elves can help me." When Blaise moved to go with him, Harry gestured him down.  "No, don't come get me, unless you see him following."

"What is going on?" Nott questioned, frowning. Crabbe and Goyle just looked blank, as ever, and Draco looked guilty.

"Don't worry about it," Blaise snapped. "Are you sure, Harry?"

"Yes." Harry patted Draco on the shoulder as he passed. He didn't blame Draco. How could he, when Draco had apparently been living with Lord Voldemort for months?

 

* * *

 

Harry spent the rest of the party in a small alcove off of the kitchen, drinking willow bark tea as Dobby cried and wrung his hands.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry Potter sir," he said, ears drooping. "So, so sorry. Master Draco wanted Dobby to warn you, to keep you from school. Bad things are happening there, very bad! But Master Lucius swore Dobby to secrecy, and I can't say anything, can't-- can't."

"What if I say some yes or no questions? Could you agree or disagree? That way you wouldn't be giving anything up."

Dobby nodded wetly.

"Professor Quirrell came here and he brought the Philosopher's Stone. Lord Malfoy helped Quirrell and the Dark Lord devise a plan using this book he had, an old diary, which had once belonged to Voldemort. The name T.M. Riddle is transcribed on the cover, so it must be his. The diary wasn't enough, though, so he had to get power from someone living to fuel the ritual. Somehow, that happened to be Percy Weasley. Combining Percy's life force with the diary allowed the Stone to make a body for the Dark Lord. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Dobby nodded frantically, tears sliding down his face and splashing wetly on his hands. "Yes yes yes yes," he said.

"Lord Malfoy, and maybe the Dark Lord, are using blood magic for something. They've been responsible for the ghosts disappearing, and the various other disappearances."

"Yes yes." The house elf, trembling, took Harry's hand. "I'm so sorry, Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Can Percy be saved?"

"I don't know!" Dobby wailed, and threw himself onto the floor, heaving great sobs.

 

* * *

 

The Zabinis and Harry went home early. It felt more like a retreat than it ought, and they talked before bed about what had happened, all sipping hot chocolate in the comfortable den of the house on Persephone Square. Madam Zabini's hot chocolate had more than a splash of brandy in it, and as she heard the boys' stories, she heaved a sigh.

"Harry, the time has come," she announced. She was poised at the edge of a Victorian chair, her curls mussed enough to look like a halo around her face. "You _are_ going to call me Louisa, because I have several important things to tell you, and I shouldn't risk it for someone who isn't family."

"Family?" Harry could feel his cheeks begin to redden.

"Family," Louisa said firmly. She took a hard swallow from the hot chocolate; it seemed like she rather wished it was the brandy bottle itself instead. "Now, many things have been happening, and I couldn't tell you much of it by letter. We should have spoken before going into Malfoy Manor, but I had hoped… I had wanted to get through the holidays."

"It's all right, Mother," Blaise said. He was entirely focused for once, and hadn't moved from Harry's side since the moment Harry had beckoned him to the kitchen alcove at Malfoy Manor and told him everything. "You can hardly be blamed for what happened tonight."

"I don't even know what did happen," Harry complained. His head was still aching, despite the willow bark tea and hot chocolate.

"I believe," Louisa said, "that the Dark Lord used Legimency against you, powerful and subtle Legimency that tore through the shields you were beginning to make with Professor Snape."

Not that Snape had been much help so far. He had dumped a stack of books in Harry's arms and told him to read, take notes, and start practicing the first steps. They were supposed to be advancing into practical lessons after the winter hols.

"It didn't feel like that. The books say--" Harry paused, trying to remember. "The books say that a Legimency attack should feel like something outward probing in. This felt like something in my mind, trying to break out. And it's not just the headache. My scar itself hurt. It opened again and started to bleed."

"Your scar is where you were hit by the Killing Curse. No one knows the affects of surviving that, so it's possible that could have some bearing on what happened." Louisa sighed, looking deep into her cup as if she could read the future inside. "There have been rumors that the Dark Lord was back, and could be found at Malfoy Manor if one wanted to reach him. Narcissa has been impossible to contact, and looks worse and worse every time I see her, and Draco is almost a wraith. My contacts in Wales and Ireland have been feeling flares along the ley lines, and one node went dark on one of the old battlegrounds from the War of Vipers in Devon. I knew that Tom Riddle was Dark, but not that he was the Dark Lord. It could be a made-up name, or if it's his real name, no one remembers it."

She looked up at Harry and met his eyes. "They say he's after you in particular because of a prophecy, one that says that only you can defeat him."

Harry's mind went blank. "I don't understand."

"It could be a lie, or it could be true. There are prophecies in the wizarding world--"

"No, I know that," Harry interrupted, "but why do I have to defeat him? Maybe his theories are right-- that magic is dying in England because there aren't Three Lords. If I kill him, ignoring that that's _impossible_ and that I'm _twelve_ , and there's no one to replace him, witches and wizards could stop being born in England soon. Besides, I don't want to kill anyone."

"Harry, he could be lying," Blaise pointed out. "He has to seem like a reasonable alternative so that people will support him."

Harry gave a frustrated grunt. "You don't understand. It matches the research.  It matches what the Flamels say about ley lines and Earth magic, and the history of the Three Kings, who _did_ exist, even though the legends are muddled. It's just a question of how much about them has gotten confused over the years. 'Not dead but sleeping'-- it's possible the power is just sleeping so that all three Lords could come back into play. The Dark Lord is here. Dumbledore is the effective Light Lord. It's only the Grey Lord that's missing, that's always missing. If the Grey Lord is missing, the other Lords might not have the power they once did."

Louisa's eyes showed a fierce satisfaction before her expression grew weary again. "We have no proof of that. Or of the prophecy, yet. Not that you should try to be killing Dark Lords at this point anyway. I forget, sometimes, that you're only twelve."

"It's because of my vocabulary," Harry informed her, just to make her laugh. She did, the clear toll of her laughter echoing in his ears for a satisfying moment. "So, what should we do now?" he asked after she stopped.

"Be happy. Tell Dumbledore, since as much as I personally dislike him, he will protect as many people as he can while you grow up. Learn as much as you can. I'll see if there's a way to obtain access to that prophecy."

Harry really didn't like the sound of that. Waiting while other people did interesting things-- it seemed boring to him. He much preferred having an active role.

"In the meantime," Louisa suggested, "presents!"

 

* * *

 

The Floo travel back to Positano the next morning was as tumultuous as ever. Harry somehow always managed to bruise an elbow, and this time he had done so hard enough that Louisa gave him a stern look, a reminder to keep his elbows in, and a healing potion that made Harry's skin all turn red, but also made his bruises all go away.

Louisa looked him over sharply, red head to red toe. "The owls aren't going to like this one bit," she said, sighing.

"Can they even see color?" Blaise asked lazily, crossing the room to fling open the doors. The sun was out and shining cheerily over the stone buildings and bright green trees. As the wind rushed in, Harry could smell oranges and the sea, salty and wet and with a tingling sense of the power that had accumulated through all the years of sailors worshipping the depths.

"Never underestimate the owls. Only they know what they truly can and cannot do." Louisa opened the windows as well, then took up her bags. "Go unpack, and I don't want to see anything left in a pile on your bed."

Harry followed Blaise, who set his trunk at the end of his bed, flopped down on it, and closed his eyes.

Harry snorted in amusement; Blaise cracked an eye. "What?" he asked crossly. "The only thing in a pile on the bed is me this way. It's not like I won't have to put everything back in the trunk if I take it out."

"Good point," Harry allowed. He left the room and went to the bedroom he normally stayed in, but stopped at the door. There, in cursive letters deeply engraved, his name was etched into the wood of the door. He touched it, rubbing the letters like they would come off. They didn't, of course, and Harry entered.

"They really do care about you, Speaker," Surana said, slithering down Harry's side and onto the floor. She crawled beneath the bed, where it was cool and dark. "Louisa isn't the type to eat her young."

"No, just her husbands," Harry had to reply to that bit of snake-logic. Surana made a hacking sound that was her version of a snort of laughter. "Do you want to stay in here? I doubt we'll go very far today, and it's cooler."

"Yessss, that would please me."

Harry rolled his eyes a bit and began pulling endless books out of his trunk to set up around the room. He had his books on Occulumency, of course, and a few on theoretical Legimency; thick alchemical books and dictionaries for deciphering the ridiculous words they used; thin, dark little pocket books about blood magic; all of his textbooks and his subsequent notes; and finally, a wonderful book from Flourish and Blotts that showed what books he could order via owl post from them. He sat on the bed with that one and skimmed through the sections. It was time, he thought, to learn how to tap into ley lines.

"Harry, come _on_!" Blaise shouted. "I want to play Quidditch."

"I hate Quidditch!" Harry shouted back. "It's illogical! Why does the Snitch even exist?"

He checked off a number of books in the catalogue, and then flipped to the back to give his relevant account information at Gringotts. Then he signed his name. As the last bit of ink settled into the paper, the words shifted on the page to read: _Thank you for your patronage. Please give three to four days for international postage._ Harry grinned. He did love magic. He would have hated to have to wait for Demi to arrive from England only to send him all the way back again. Since it wasn't exactly easy to bring an owl through the Floo, he had asked Demi to fly the way, and the owl had agreed with what had sounded like a hoot of relief.

"I don't care if you don't like Quidditch," Blaise said, appearing in the doorway. "We always do what you want. Study this, read that, try not to get killed by this minion, meet the Dark Lord. You can play Quidditch for me if I can do that for you."

Guiltily, Harry nodded. "Okay," he said meekly. "But when my books come, I have to study."

Blaise took one look around the room and shuddered. "You already brought all the books in the world. How can you be getting more? Never mind; I've decided I wish not to care, since this afternoon is going to be about me. And don't go feeling guilty. You know you're my best friend."

Whenever he said something like that, it always made Harry turn red. "Yeah," he agreed. "I like to fly anyway. It'll be nice."

Harry did love to fly, though he often forgot. They had mostly covered the basics in his flying lessons, but the couple times that they had been able to do free flying or some tame gymnastic flying, it had been incredible.

"That's the spirit."

 

* * *

Harry spent the entire winter holiday reading about ley lines from the books he had ordered from Flourish and Blotts. Blaise and Louisa disapproved strongly, and persisted in dragging him from his room to work in the owlery or the gardens. He often ended up sitting beside an olive tree outside and reading anyway, regardless of their objections that he would rot his brain from too much reading and not enough activity.

He had actually been studying the ley lines idly, off and on, since he had first learned that he was a wizard; he had even been reading a book about ley lines when he had met Blaise on the train to Hogwarts. Now that he knew that the Dark Lord was interested in the Three Lords mythology, and potentially the ley lines themselves, it seemed vital that he discover more about them himself. The books were intensely contradictory and couldn't even seem to agree what a ley line was.

 _Despite the inability for most authors to properly define the indefinable, the method for first gaining awareness to a ley line is simple, and acknowledged by all scholars on the subject,_ wrote author Astra Brynteg, _It is also very difficult, because the first step is to know where a node of power along a ley line is located. The uneducated can make a fair guess, but guessing wrong can invite the presence of mischievous elementals who want nothing more than an unguarded entrance into this world. This is because the novice Earth magician must use a needle of pure silver to prick his thumb while standing on a node of power._

_Then he must do what so many of our British brethren are so utterly incapable of doing: he must ask, plainly and succinctly, if he might be given knowledge of the power. He may be politely refused. He may be accepted. He may be horribly rejected and die. And he may be taken advantage of by a laughing Earth elemental, who will take the opportunity to create cracks in the earth, knock down buildings, and grow forests that overtake cities, as happened on Elizabeth's Isle in Bermuda when the foolish Scottish wizard Geoffrey Brittlebranch thought he knew more than those who had lived on the island for generations about how best to appease the native forest spirits._

_If all of these warnings do not deter you, a novice might dowse the location of the ley lines by use of a small, smooth stone with a natural hole through it, kept on the end of a string to sway this way and that until--_

Harry, fortunately, knew one node of power, since he had been told about it: Hogwarts.

All of this studying had an unfortunate price. Harry woke one morning a few days before he was due back at school and Louisa had taken Harry's books away, including the one that he had fallen asleep curled up with.

"But, I was _studying_ ," Harry said, grasping for something to say to convey the horror of seeing a bookshelf empty of books and not landing on the right words. He was still mostly asleep and was wondering if this was some kind of terrible dream. Surana, the traitor, was just laughing a hissing little laugh at him. She had probably seen the entire business happening while Harry slept and hadn't done a thing.

"No," Louisa said loftily, and said nothing more on the subject of the books. "You are going to go out and swim in the ocean, and pick grapes at the vineyard, and shop for trinkets at the outdoor markets. Didn't you say you needed to get something for your friend Luna for Yule?"

"Well, yes." Harry shuffled his feet guiltily. He had gotten gifts for Draco, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle-- a scarf for Draco, a new pair of headphones for Blaise, and some sweets for the other two-- but he had never been able to think of what he wanted to get for Luna and Penelope. Hermione had surprised him with a gift as well, which had appeared in his room Christmas morning. It was a lovely self-inking quill with a raven feather, and very dark ink that refused to smudge. Harry loved it, and naturally had to get her an equally lovely gift in return.

"Then go. Blaise."

Blaise appeared over his mother's shoulder and grabbed Harry by the arm. "I will undertake this duty solemnly, Mother," he said, smirking as he dragged Harry off to the beach. Of course, Harry retaliated by nearly drowning him in the water once they got there, but it was good for Blaise to fear for his life once in a while. It kept him sharp.

They didn't make it to the markets until the next day. There was a dark press of grey clouds overhead, and a strong breeze was coming in off the cerulean water. It made Harry's hair fly off his neck and whip back over his forehead. It was past his collar now, long enough to tie back into a short tail that had Louisa making approving noises about how he "Looked just like a proper wizard. Our very own little Merlin!" Harry decided not to burst her bubble and tell her how Aunt Petunia was likely to make him cut it.

Into the press of stalls and stands they went, a mess of bright colors and fragrant smells. Harry was able to pick up a book on Italian magic for Hermione, and another book for Penelope, but the gift for Luna proved difficult until he happened upon a ring made out of teak, carved into the shape of feathers and with the wood stained, in the most lurid shades possible, every color of the rainbow.

"You can't get a girl _jewelry,_ " Blaise said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry just shrugged. "Why not? She gave me jewelry, after all."

Blaise didn't say anything, but he was in a great sulk for the rest of the day after that, and then the last day was spent packing and playing tag on broomsticks.

As she dropped them off at King's Cross, Louisa hugged them both, pressing kisses to each of their foreheads. Her curly hair filled Harry's vision and he hugged her back desperately. Hogwarts was wonderful, but every step away from this moment was a step closer to the Dursleys.

"Be safe," she said sternly. "Keep writing. Let me know if Professor Snape is cruel during your Occulumency lessons. Blaise, let me know in case Harry doesn't, and I want to get more reports that you're going to bed on a regular time."

Blaise gave Harry a betrayed look. "Reporting to my _mother_ , Harry?"

Harry smiled. "It takes more than one person to keep track of you."

"Don't get into trouble, and make sure you're not alone where either of you could be targeted." The boys both nodded solemnly, Harry trying not to feel desperately guilty about what he had planned for tonight. It's not like accidentally letting an uncontrolled elemental into Hogwarts was a _likely_ outcome, and really, academic curiosity demanded he try to connect to the ley lines.

They made their goodbyes to Louisa, and then they were back on the Hogwarts Express. They took a compartment with Luna, Padma, and Mandy. Blaise had insisted that they ignore Draco entirely. "That bit at Yule was practically tantamount to contracting a hit wizard to murder you," he said, disgruntled, as they pulled their trunks along. "I can't believe he did that. He offered to introduce you. He could have just let the opportunity pass, but instead he put you in harm's way."

Harry was conflicted on that himself. Although Draco had put him in harm's way, he had also managed to tell Harry that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort without actually telling him, and that was a pure Slytherin move in every way.

In the compartment, the two older girls kept giving Luna strange looks; Harry really didn't understand the vagaries of girls and their looks, however, so he kept his mouth shut as he presented Luna with his gift.

"You really didn't have to," she said, but her blue eyes lit up with pleasure when she opened the box. "Oh, it's lovely! It looks like teak. Did you know that the Douen in Trinidad live in teak forests, where they hide with the spirits of trees until it's time to play pranks on the local villages? And Khodam, who are a kind of guardian spirit, also live in teak wood. It's very good for working with spirits because of that."

"I'm glad you like it," Harry said. Blaise made a huffing noise and put on his headphones; Harry rolled his eyes. Apparently, Blaise's sulk wasn't quite over with, though Harry had no idea what his issue was with Harry giving Luna the teak ring.

Luna looked over at Blaise and smiled, more mischievous than dreamy. "I love it," she said, and hugged Harry with one arm. Harry patted her back awkwardly. Though Louisa was making him more accustomed to it, he still never quite knew what to do when someone hugged him. "Harry." Luna's voice was quiet in his ear, little more than a breath. "Be careful tonight."

Harry nodded. Somehow, Luna always knew everything, and Harry was beginning to like having someone around to guide him, however obscure that guidance was.

"Did you have a chance to study over the break?" Mandy asked. "I'm so jealous you got to be in Italy-- my dad and mum never bring us out of the country, even on holiday."

The four Ravenclaws chatted about books for the rest of the trip, and Blaise sank into an angry silence with his headphones blocking out their noise and his eyes closed. He didn't say much even when they got back at Hogwarts, and parted from Harry to go back to Slytherin without a grumble.

Trying to stay positive, Harry decided that this was actually a good thing: it meant that Blaise wouldn't realise what Harry was planning to do. Late that night, after Terry, Michael, and Anthony had all fallen asleep, Harry took the invisibility cloak he had gotten last Christmas out for the first time. He took it and put it on, letting the silvery cloth hide him from the world as he crept out the door and down the long staircases, past the numerous bookshelves, and through the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.

The hallways of Hogwarts were strange at night. It was like Harry was seeing them for the first time again, ancient and gloomy, with tiny windows to prevent arrows from coming in if the castle was held under siege. He made it outside without too much trouble, though he heard Argus Finch, the caretaker, talking to his cat, Mrs. Norris, somewhere at one point. The lawns were well lit under the moonlight; the full moon was a bit less than a week away. Harry made his way to the shores of the Great Lake, which rippled under the quiet roll of the Giant Squid's tentacles as it let its long limbs absorb the moonlight. Harry watched it for a moment as its great head peeked out of the water, its eyes staring up into the moon.

Harry carefully took off the cloak, tucking it into the pocket of his robes. Then he drew out a silver needle, pricked his thumb, and _asked_.

"Please." Though he whispered the word, it carried over the Great Lake as if he had shouted. "I need to know more about the ley lines. There's so much power, so much potential-- if I know more, I can talk to the Headmaster or the Dark Lord, and maybe I can say what needs to be said so that the wizarding world doesn't destroy itself."

He realised, in the silence that fell when he stopped speaking, that he really did want to stop a war rather than fight in it. The Dark Lord was kidnapping or killing people, destroying ghosts, and terrifying the whole wizarding world, but he was trying to keep magic alive, if he could be believed. And Dumbledore was just waiting and watching-- waiting for Harry? Waiting on a prophecy? Since when had a prophecy ever been anything but self-fulfilling? It was ridiculous to put all the world's hopes on some Chosen One. If there was anything Harry had learned in studying magic for a year and a half, he knew that magic sorted itself out, as long as the wizard or witch was willing to work and hope. Why didn't Dumbledore know that he had to actually do something if he wanted something to happen? Something other than stand by as the Dark Lord burned bones and took over the Ministry.

Beneath Harry's feet, something answered. The Giant Squid disappeared beneath the lake with a great roll of waves, and Harry closed his eyes as a song filled his ears, ancient and brilliant and sad. Hogwarts lit up behind his eyelids, a glowing fortress of red, blue, green, and gold power. Lines trailed away from it like arteries from a heart, connecting all over England, linking dimly to every person that passed or walked near them. Harry followed them over the span of miles-- a choke of black chains at the Ministry in London, caging the light; a proud, unbroken line under the faerie mounds in Ireland; a shining beacon at Stonehenge. He took a breath and withdrew back into himself, opening his eyes to the Great Lake again.

He felt through the lines when, above the glittering node of St. Mungo's, Percy Weasley awoke with a gasp; to Harry's eyes, he glowed gold as his connection to the lines surged open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this yesterday, but I somehow just kept summarizing instead of actually writing most of the second half of this chapter, which was obviously not going to cut it. I had to go back over it and actually turn it into real dialogue and description. I am fairly pleased with this chapter as a result.
> 
> The next chapter is going to be ridiculously long and entirely Percy-centric, so I'm not sure how much time it will take for that one. It's also a very odd chapter, quite a bit different than the rest. I've been planning it for a while.


	20. [Year Two] The Dream-Quest of Percy Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy Weasley forms a crush, gets his heart broken, ends up trapped in the Dreamworld, falls in love, and gets his heart broken again. The course of true love never did run smooth, and sometimes it's just not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section of Common Sense was inspired by, in no particular order, The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath by H.P. Lovecraft, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland by Catherynne Valente, The Faerie Queene by William Spenser, Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare, Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges, Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan, Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell, Animal Farm by George Orwell, and The Inferno by Dante Alighieri. There are likely a few others as well that I'm not really remembering right now. Unless I screwed something up, this should be a proper hero's journey, and additionally contains displays of all seven virtues.
> 
> Much of Dream-Quest was only able to be written due to help from Bring Me the Horizon's album That's the Spirit. So if you want to feel somewhat hopelessly bad for Percy, "Doomed" and "Follow You" in particular were helpful, as well as "Sleepwalking" in the album Sempiternal.
> 
> Warnings for: sexual content, emotional manipulation, torture, cannibalism if you squint, numerous literary references, self-esteem issues, undisclosed pairing, potentially confusing scene changes because dreams are weird, dream logic, general weirdness? None of this is much more explicit than you would find in a traditional Grimm's fairytale.
> 
> Since some people are confused: as I stated last chapter, this chapter is Percy-focused due to his integral position in the plot, but the focus does switch back to Harry next chapter. As I warned in the very first chapter and have had tagged since the beginning, "Percy Weasley gets a speaking role." To clarify additionally, since some readers think (for reasons unknown to me) that they can skip this chapter, numerous plot points are revealed, foreshadowed, and intimated here. If you skip it, you will miss a great deal, even if you think you can just push through. Eventually, you will be confused, and I prefer not having to answer questions that could be solved by reading chapters in the order laid out.

* * *

 

_This is a love story, but it isn't the happy kind._

 

In his dark little bedroom in the Burrow, the rickety home of the Weasley family, Percy Weasley fell asleep on a fine summer day next to a battered little book. It bled ink into his right hand, coating his fingers in black that dug under his nails and seeped into his skin. Percy closed his eyes. He could taste something bitter, metallic, and as his breath slowed, he didn't quite realise that he was crying. Crying wasn't what boys did. It wasn't proper. It was better for him not to know, since he wouldn't have approved even though his heart was breaking.

His mother found him the next morning and shrieked, shaking his shoulder frantically and alerting the entire household. Five other ginger heads popped into his room like scared rabbits. Normally, Percy hated it when his entire, too-large family made their way into his private space, but this time Percy didn't notice. Percy slept.

 

* * *

 

Witches and wizards learn at a young age that in the crease between worlds, there is a pocket that ties them all together. It is just the smallest space, a flap where the universes collide and blur together at the edges, a swirling rainbow of colors in the void of space. To an observer, this colliding and blurring makes everything both strangely familiar and decidedly not; it is a characteristic of a dream, to be both of these things. The knowledge of most witches and wizards ends at this point. The Dreamworld is a place of many lands and allegiances, a place where no one can die but quite a few other awful things can happen, a place where monsters reign and happy lands are few and far between.

On the western shore of dreams was the land of Plarr, a trade-based province with a self-titled capital city. The province's arrogant Lord Delphi paid allegiance, on occasion, to the high king on Mars. The high king was just far away enough for no one to pay him much mind, but close enough that he could pop round for tea and biscuits without notice and no one could refuse him. It was here that Percy Weasley awoke with ink stains on his fingers. He took one look around himself, and said unto the empty air: "Bollocks."

Percy knew he was dreaming, and even where he was, as most dreamers do while the dream is occurring, but it failed to concern him. Instead, he was just irritated at the inconvenience. No one who knew Percy would have been surprised that he was irritated instead of intrigued, thoughtful, or excited. After all, Percy was boring. He was straight-laced, dull, a yawn, rigid, acted like he had a rod shoved up his bum straight into his spine, coming out at the top to prop up his stiff upper lip.

Percy rubbed at the ink on his hands, trying to scrub it away as he looked out over the waves. He seemed to be standing on a shore, toes curled into the golden sand. He couldn't see the other side or any land except that which was behind him. Nearby, there was a web of docks criss-crossing endlessly away, the ships moored and their sails tied tight to their masts. A few had merrily waving flags in red, violet, and deep blue: the national flag of the Martian king.

Not wanting to risk the docks, Percy turned around. The city rose up immediately, springing from the sand as if it had been waiting for him. The giant stones met at strange angles, forming architecture like Percy had never seen before. Triangular windows were cut deep into spherical houses, obtuse angles leered over acute, and building materials ranged from stacks of American money to delicately-cut planks of sugar.

Suddenly, Percy was surrounded on all sides by people milling about, shouting, tossing crates from one set of arms to another. The sailors unloaded one of the ships, crates moving from one overly-muscled man to the next. Over it all reigned the captain, sitting in the crow's nest with his hair gleaming green in the sun, a grin on his face. He looked all of fourteen, and had an eyepatch over one eye and numerous tattoos on his arms.

Clearly not the sort to associate with, then.

"Excuse me," Percy asked one of the sailors. The man spared him only the slightest glance, then ignored him to receive the next box. " _Excuse_ me," said Percy. "You're being very rude."

"It's rude itself to point out the poor manners of others," said the captain. Percy hadn't seen him move, but the boy was suddenly in front of him, green curls like oxidized copper in the sunlight. "So we really shouldn't associate with you, Dreamer."

"I need to wake up," Percy said crossly, "so someone had better explain to me how I go about doing that."

"Why? It's not my problem," said the boy. He blew a big bubble in Percy's face and peeled off, laughing, jumping on the boxes that the sailors were carrying and springing from one to the next.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," complained Percy. "If this is what dreaming is like, I'm glad I don't usually remember. Worse than Fred and George, you lot are."

He felt a pang then, distant and hollow, at the thought of what his family might be doing while he slept. He shoved it away. Who in his family actually cared for him anyway? Bill and Charlie would always be better, Fred, George, and Ron more likeable, and Ginny stood out as the only girl. They wouldn't miss him while he was gone.

When he was four, Percy had run away once. Fred and George were in their terrible twos, and Molly was already past her due date for Ron. No one paid attention to when Percy slipped out of the Burrow and ran out through the back fields. He didn't know where he was going. He just wanted to run away, fly away like a snidget into the sun.

Bill, Percy's oldest brother, had come to find him. Bill was ten then, and already a charming bane to his mother's existence. He skinned his knees, refused to let anyone cut his hair unless they spelled him to the chair, and flirted with the garden gnomes until they blushed and left the gardens of their own volition instead of continuing to infest them like the pests they were.

"You've got to get up, Perce," he had said. Percy was sitting in the grass on far side of a stone wall, trying to figure out far he would be able to run.

"I don't wanna," Percy said, glaring up at his older brother, "and you can't make me."

Bill ruffled a hand through his hair. "You have to come back. You can't run away forever."

"Why? No one wants me around. You're all still there. No one will miss me."

Looking as deeply uncomfortable as a ten-year-old could, Bill said, "Because that's what you do. That's what's… right. Mom's crying. She misses you."

Percy had sighed and struggled to his feet. "If it's the 'propriate thing to do," he had said, and with dignity followed his brother back to the house.

Far away from the Burrow, in the world of dreams, there was an insistent tugging on one sleeve of his robes, a pair of slender, pink fingers winding around the cloth. He crouched down when he saw the flower elf, a creature that he hadn't thought existed outside of storybooks. Waist-high, she had pink skin and a narrow, sylvan face with tall ears, black eyes, and a tulip on her head instead of hair.

She gave a tittering laugh at his attention, blushing gold glitter across her pink cheeks. "Dreamer," she said, "The Door to Waking is in the north, but you'll need a guide."

"Will you guide me?" he asked.

She just laughed and disappeared before his eyes like a flash of fire. Percy sighed. Dreams, he decided emphatically, were not his cup of tea.

Percy walked deeper into the city, trying his best to dodge the numerous creatures and beings that inhabited the Dreamworld. Out of one of the sandy streets rose the Inn of the Proper English Traveler. It was a well-lit and modern building with clean sheets and hearty food, none of this foreign nonsense that might be expected from a dream. Percy was able to navigate his way to the inn almost immediately. His unerring sense of the proper didn't steer him wrong even once.

"Excuse me," he said to the innkeeper. The man glanced up; he seemed like a regular human, which was a first here as far as Percy could tell. "Could I have a room?"

The man looked him up and down, lip curling. "And how do you intend to pay for a _room_ , Dreamer?"

Percy blinked. "I'm sure I wouldn't travel without money…?" He reached into his pocket and, sure enough, was able to pull out a handful of sickles and knuts.

" _Wizard_." The innkeeper shook his head, disgust etched into every line of his face. "We don't want your type here. You're hardly the right sort."

"I am _definitely_ the right sort," Percy tried to insist, but he was summarily shoved out the door onto the street.

He tried to think logically about how best to proceed next, but his thoughts scattered. He had to think around things if he wanted to think about them at all, the knowledge seeming to come from somewhere around his belly-button rather than from his brain. He _hated_ it. He liked things to be logical and straightforward. He liked to be able to think and overthink, to rely on knowledge rather than instinct. Instinct could be betrayed.

Percy walked across the street to the Den of Ill Repute, a dark building with lewd paintings on its walls and a number of loitering youth outside it. Edging past a boy with bat ears, he entered the Den and found himself in a dimly lit restaurant. China clinked. Men in suits and women in ball gowns laughed dulcet laughs as they sipped their tea and ate their steaks with knife and fork. The counter was in the back, a shining mahogany with a set of white business cards in a holder at the front.

"Oh, you're definitely our sort," the den-mother said as he approached. She smiled, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth. She looked like some kind of troll, ugly and rocky, with stringy vines for hair and cruel eyes. Percy barely resisted the urge to flinch away. "I'm Jeanne, and I'll watch over you while you're here."

"Thank you," he said uncertainly, taking the room key she held out to him. "Do you know how I might get a guide to the Door to Waking?"

She looked at him for a moment, eyes sharpening, and said, "Find the phoenix. Unless you want to give your virginity to an incubus, the phoenix is the only one that can help you through the Door. Personally, I would go with the incubus. His lessons might be easier to learn than the phoenix's. You seem too stubborn to learn otherwise."

Percy nodded. "Thank you," he said graciously, but Jeanne only snorted and turned away. No one in this place had any manners at all.

As he turned around to head to his room, he thought he saw a boy at one of the tables, with black hair and red eyes and a handsome smile.

He had written to Tom for weeks, telling him all of his petty frustrations. He had told Tom how disappointed he was that his parents weren't more successful, and how he thought the twins would cheerfully kill him if they could. They were so callous sometimes, and whenever they found a weak point, would tear at it until it came apart.

 _People like that only go after those who leave their weak points visible,_ Tom had written after some time. _You have to pretend not to care until it becomes the truth. Or find their weak points in turn…._

Tom had confided in him too. He had told Percy about growing up in a Muggle orphanage, about living in fear that the Muggles were going to end the world. When he was younger, he had been sure that the Muggles were going to tear London down with him in it. He had avoided the Blitz only barely. The train stations had been choked by Muggles fleeing the city, and the Hogwarts Express had been able to run only by the Minister of Magic getting into a well-publicised screaming match with the current Prime Minister of England, Winston Churchill. He had been in Hogwarts only a couple days when the first bombs started to hit.

Now, he was afraid that they were going to destroy the world, the different countries in an arms race that seemed like it would only end if everything did. What Tom described were bombs so horrific that Percy couldn't even imagine. The Germans may have them already, Tom wrote, and he may have been talking about 1942, but somehow it still made Percy feel scared. No spell could have an effect like that-- bombs that made even the people that survived the explosion sick, burned their flesh, melted their eyes out of their sockets and left them crying for someone to save them.

Percy remembered meeting with Tom in the pages of the book, a charming smile on Tom's full lips as he brushed Percy's hair out of his eyes and let his hand trail down Percy's freckled cheek. His eyes had been so cold, though.

With a blink, Tom disappeared from where Percy had seen him at the table. Percy tried not to feel a sense of loss.

 

* * *

 

No one in the Dreamworld seemed to have the slightest idea where the phoenix could be found, so Percy had to take work. There was always something to do on the streets of Plarr. Being a port city and one of the biggest trade cities in the Dreamworld, there was work to be done on the ships or in the restaurants, inns, and bars. The Martian ships came and went with their goods, and needed unloading. The streets needed sweeping and the inns needed cleaning. The only problem was that no one in the city was willing to associate with him, regardless of whether he was polite and affected subservience. They had to be the rudest beings he had ever met, and his hatred of this place only grew every time he was brushed off by a nasty little imp who thought he was better than he was.

"People can tell when you think they're lower than dirt," Jeanne told him one day as she served him breakfast off of a platter made of slate, the imprint of flowers making patterns in the stone. He hated eating here. Dream food started out tasting wonderful, but it was fleeting and left him hungrier than ever. He poked at his bacon and thought of his mother's cooking and the fry-ups they ate in the mornings when they had enough money. Mrs. Weasley always made a fry-up on holidays or birthdays, and the day before they had to go to meet the Hogwarts Express. Percy wondered what they were eating now.

"I don't think they're 'lower than dirt,'" Percy scoffed.

She made a wordless, frustrated noise and left him to pick at his food.

"Isn't she awful?" Tom said, leaning against the table with both elbows. He laid his hand over Percy's, rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly over the fragile bones in Percy's hand. "Don't worry," he said as Percy blushed, feeling a low curl of arousal at the touch, "You're above them all."

Jeanne came back and it was like it was Tom was never there. Maybe he wasn't, since Jeanne didn't seem to have seen him. 

The only one willing to give him work was Jeanne, but she seemed less and less patient every time he thanked her after she insulted him. He took pleasure in that. At least his stubborn refusal to be anything less than proper was having a reaction.

"There's supposed to be an honesty in dreams, and you just don't have it," she said one evening. The stars were out in full force, so bright that there wasn't a single lamp lit anywhere in the city. She knit furiously under the starlight, the warts on her fingers snagging against the delicate, silvery spider-thread.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Percy stiffened, affronted.

"If the shoe fits, the princess should wear it," Jeanne mocked. She shook her head. The vines that made up her hair were flowering, and as she moved, a few petals fell out. "Just go and pretend to sleep some more."

He withdrew to his room. It wasn't possible to sleep in the Dreamworld, of course. That would be ridiculous. So he would go to his room and close his eyes, pretending he was back home. Tom would come. He would lie on the bed and draw Percy's head to his chest, carding his fingers through Percy's hair.

"You're such a generous, smart boy, Percy," Tom would croon. "They don't deserve you." He would press a lingering kiss to Percy's forehead, and Percy would half-remember the feeling of energy being drained out of his body as Tom's diary shuddered and spat ink. Wasn't it worth it, if Tom was happy?

_(He forgot, on purpose, the disgust on Tom's face every time he had touched Percy when he was in the diary, the way he had carefully sneered around the concept of relationships, his utter confusion when Percy had said his family frustrated him, but he still loved them. Tom was an orphan, after all. Percy could forgive him for not understanding family.)_

Working in Plarr was hard. Percy had never really worked before, much less worked in a dream. He scrubbed the floors of the Den, digging beneath layers and years of dirt until they shone. It took weeks to clean every corner of the Den, wipe away every dark spot and greasy stain. He could see his face reflected in the polished wood by the time he was given other tasks: caring for the silverware, waiting on tables of elegantly dressed dreamers, brewing pots of tea in an endless stream so that the wealthy could tipple drabs of cream and sugar into every rose-patterned cup. He was eventually given the opportunity to do the shopping at the marketplace, taking with him the strands of hair, jars of tears, and tins of good wishes that Jeanne gave him to trade.

The market area was nearest to the docks, a rough place that had fights and scrabbles, thieves galore ducking in and out of crates, bags, and pockets. The first time a sailor stabbed a dreamer through the heart had been shocking, the dreamer dissipating in a wave of smoke and light. The sailor cleaned his knife on his shirt before tucking it into his boot, his eyes staring at Percy as if daring him to say something. Percy didn't dare. He wasn't sure what would happen if he died before he woke, since he had a suspicion that unlike most of the other dreamers, he wouldn't just wake up again.

There were many things in the Dreamworld that were amazing, though. There were parades and festivals every day, full of creatures that Percy hadn't thought existed. Blue monsters held hands with little girls with cat faces and danced through the streets. Trumpets played themselves, aching songs that Percy had never heard before; dreamers flew on great white wings; and wild horses stampeded through the market. For every good dream there was a bad, though. Eventually, Percy had to stop caring about seeing couples fornicating in the streets at Carnivale, and snaggle-toothed mer-beasts eating the legs off of Muggle businessmen who screamed and cried.

"How do you cope with it?" Percy asked wearily, as he watched a minotaur break the arm of a Roman boy with a stolen fruit.

Jeanne shrugged. They were sitting at the table by the window in the Den of Ill Repute. "You just get used to it," she said. Despite her words, her eyes were like flames as she watched the minotaur, the thin line of her mouth barely parting as she took a sip of tea. "Eventually, it starts to become entertaining, a bit of 'who's going to get offed most creatively today'? Is it the little girl eaten by a pack of wolves? Is it the man who falls into the volcano and is then set upon by lava piranhas? Who knows?"

Percy stared at her in horror. "That is a horrible way to think."

Jeanne shrugged. "Finally, an honest opinion." She tilted her head and smiled, reaching out to pat his arm. "The first one you've given me, in fact. Give me another: you think that if they're caught, they deserve it, don't you? They deserve getting their arms or their hearts broken, because they should have known _better_. You would have known better, if it was you. Wouldn't you?"

_Wouldn't you?_

Percy hated being asked that. He hated everything lately. He hated most that what she had said was true. He had it in him to be cruel. He had to confront that every day now, when he felt that mild twitch of scorn every time a dreamer lost a chase, fell from a cliff, or was killed by someone they thought a friend. It was their own fault for being so bloody stupid, for not being like him, being _aware_.

"Yes," he bit out.

She grinned one of her sharp little grins. "For that, I'll tell you where to find the phoenix. Just keep telling the truth."

"A polite nothing is kinder than a painful truth," Percy said. "Should I go around telling every person I see that they deserve all the bad things that happened to them? If they were smarter, if they were better, if they had some foresight or had thought to tell someone--"

She smiled coldly, the expression ugly on her already unattractive face. "Are you angry at them or yourself?" she asked. "You don't have to tell people everything you think, but you have to know what you actually believe and not just the lie you tell others. Because a polite nothing is most certainly _not_ kinder than the painful truth. It's actually more condescending." Then she told him where to find the phoenix.

 

* * *

 

A traditional journey started off with watered wine, cheese, and bread. Percy was given these in a patched brown rucksack as Jeanne tidied his hair and straightened his Hogwarts robes. She rubbed a smudge on his cheek, stepping back to give him a once-over with her careful eye. As he looked back at her, more flowers in her hair burst from bud to bloom.

"You'll have to do," she said with a sigh. "Are you sure you don't want a sword?"

"I don't even know how to use one," Percy said, logically.

"You would in a _dream_." Her tone made it clear that she had very little hope left that he was intelligent, and that hope was growing smaller every day.

He paused, then. He was starting to forget that this was a dream. Everything was a lie, a make-believe, or an exaggeration; only internal logic reigned, and if he needed something, it would often turn up at the most dramatically opportune moment. He had once gone an entire day looking for something for Jeanne only to have it appear before his eyes on a shelf when he sat down to tea. At least half of what he saw day-to-day was likely a symbol for something else, his own dreams taking shape. The other half was part of the actual Dreamworld itself. "You're right. I would love a sword, thank you."

The sword that materialised on his belt was a giant thing, golden but somehow light as a feather.

"You won't be able to draw it unless your cause is worthy," she warned. "And even then, it may be unreliable for a time. In dreams, your beliefs are even more important than reality."

"Why wouldn't I be worthy?"

She gave him a pitying look. "Off you trot!" She waved goodbye as he stepped away from the borders of Plarr, and into the Plains of William beyond.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, dreamers had enough impact on the world to affect the permanent landscape of the Dreamworld. Percy knew that the Plains of William belonged to William Shakespeare the moment he saw the witches gathered around the cauldron. There were Ophelias drowned in the streams, and Mirandas chattered with spirits of the air. Dreamers were there as well, letting their hearts be seduced by Puck, Mercutio, or any number of others, crossing swords with Oberon, or suffering monologues from Hamlet.

"This is a nice walk," Tom said, putting his arm around Percy's shoulders and letting their hips brush. They watched, together, as a man with an ass-head ran past, trailed by fairies. "I like not being around all of those awful dreamers in Plarr and their ridiculous creations."  
"It wasn't all bad," Percy admitted, trying not to lean into Tom and failing. Tom's good-natured chatter was like nothing he had shown Percy before. He had always been charming with an aim, not just to talk. "I liked Jeanne."

Tom snorted. "She wasn't even human. Even if she hadn't been a dream, she was a runt troll. Do you really want to associate with that kind of thing?" Something about how he said it made the words a mockery, as if he was saying lines he didn't believe in, but maybe that kind of play-acting was just part and parcel to being in the Plains of William.

Frowning, Percy replied, "She was kind when she didn't have to be."

"But could you ever admit to being her friend?"

"It's a dream!" Percy huffed, trying to pull away.

Tom reeled him back in. "Oh, don't be like that." He bent down and kissed Percy full on the lips. Percy made a soft, surprised noise as he pushed back into the kiss, eyes closing as Tom's lips slid over his once-- twice-- three times. His hand was on the back of Percy's neck, warm and gentle, as he pressed their foreheads together. "Don't you think you should forget about leaving?" he whispered against Percy's mouth. "You could just stay here, with me."

"You-- you haven't done that before." Percy blinked rapidly, trying to focus on Tom's face. He realised that he wasn't wearing his glasses, and must not have been wearing them since he woke up in a dream. His vision must be perfect here. "I'm not gay."

Tom laughed at him and faded away. Percy decided that now was the time to try some of the wine.

Since distance was nothing in dreams unless it wanted to be, the phoenix's grove came up quickly, a lush green meadow with a number of rowans and willows forming a small thicket. Beneath the shadow of the trees was a deep lake, with a tall oak on the shore. The phoenix was nowhere to be found, but at the edge of the thicket, were two hunters in full regalia, human Muggles with thick moustaches and shotguns. They stood out sharply from the Elizabethan costumes and elaborate swords of the Shakespearean characters like a sore thumb. One was older and one was younger, and both were peering deep into the trees. Something about Percy's approach must have alerted them, though, since the younger one glanced back, saw Percy, and pelted over.

"Come on, come on-- step silent, now," the man said. He dragged Percy along, ignoring his protests. "Silent, I said-- silent!"

"What are you _doing_?" Percy asked. "Where's the phoenix?"

"Phoenix? Whoever would care about the phoenix?" the man said. "We're hunting the Abomination."

"Abomination?" That wasn't a creature that Percy was familiar with, but magical creatures had never been his specialty. Since it had always been Charlie's interest, he had thought that involving himself in it would just make him look like he was trying to copy his older brother's successes.

The older man spared a look away from his scope now. "Yes, the Abomination," he said. "We are hunters-- Richard and Junior Haddam, at your service."

"Percy Weasley. Pleasure," Percy said, with some distraction. "What is an Abomination?"

"A terrific monster," Junior said, letting go of Percy's arm and putting his gun to his shoulder. "We are going to kill it, stuff it, and mount it in our hunting cabin. The true pastime of gentlemen."

"Isn't this the phoenix's grove?"

"Hush-- there it is!"

The men readied their guns, setting their shoulders and bracing their legs. From the underbrush crashed a gigantic creature. It had the head of an owl, with the eyes of a snake and the mouth of a human. Great wings sprouted from its back, covered in black skin and horny growths that jutted out like rocks from its skin. The arms of a man sprouted from its sides, and its legs were hairy and cloven-footed, like a satyr. The stench coming off of it was unimaginable-- the smell of a fetid corpse that had sat for far too long, rotting in the sun.

"What is it doing?" Percy took a step back, unwilling to get nearer to the thing than he had to. The ground trembled with every step it took, fractures racing and spreading out from its feet. He watched it as it lumbered forward, wings mantling as it leaned down to drink from the shores of the lake.

"Washing down a dinner of unicorns, no doubt," Richard said. "On the count of three. One-- two--"

They shot at the creature, the sound of their guns a thundering blast that made Percy clutch his ears and cringe. The beast roared, its inhuman eyes widening it what almost looked like fear. It sprang into the air, flapping away with a surprising speed. Junior cursed and whipped out a wand from his belt. "Petrificus Totalis!" he shouted, but his spell arched wide.

"Good run, boy, good run," Richard said, patting Junior on the shoulder. Seeing Percy's shocked face, he frowned. "Oh, you're not a Muggle, are you? Do I need to explain wands to you? No, sorry about that-- you're clearly a Hogwarts boy."

"I thought you were a Muggle."

Richard laughed heartily. "An easy mistake to make. To be honest, I'm a squib, and my son is a half-blood. We've gotten accustomed to these… Muggle methods. We even dream in them, as you can see."

Wizards hadn't hunted to kill in England since the mid-1900s, due almost solely to Newt Scamander's work in the Ministry at protecting magical beasts. Magical creatures were just too intelligent to kill indiscriminately, and though some of the stauncher Purebloods insisted that they should be allowed to hunt and kill werewolves and other dangerous creatures as they pleased, as they had done prior to the Werewolf Register, they had largely quieted down in recent years.

Seeing guns in person, too… wizards had hunted with magic, but guns were terrifying. Guns were the things that were in all the comics, used on witches and wizards when Muggles hunted them down to kill them. Guns were the things that Tom had confessed to being terrified of, the things that the Germans would use to shoot them in their beds if they had half a chance.

"Why are you trying to kill it?" he asked abruptly.

Junior frowned. "Because we _can,_ my boy!" he said, almost as jovially as his father. He curled his auburn moustache around his finger and stared down at Percy. "It's a foul thing, you saw that-- smells awful, looks a fright, and it will really be better off dead. Now, we're set to camp here since it won't come back until tomorrow. Join us for dinner, won't you?"

In a flash, they were beside a roaring fire. The flames danced up, sparks of red and orange lashing up against the black sky like fireworks. Night had fallen, and the stars were out in full force, strange constellations like none Percy had ever seen. Richard poked at the fire with a stick, rolling over logs that crumbled as they burned black.

"That was delicious!" Junior proclaimed of the food that Percy couldn't remember eating. Percy set aside a bowl. It looked like it had contained stew of some kind, sides coated with thick red liquid. Percy realised, the kind of realisation that comes in dreams only in the aftermath, what the bowl had contained. He realised what other game that Richard and Junior had hunted in the Plains of William, and his stomach roiled. He closed his eyes. This kind of horror would wake up a normal dreamer, but Percy couldn't wake. He was only a step away from dead.

What had he eaten? What could he still taste in his mouth? What sat like rocks in his stomach, because he knew what it was? He knew….

"Don't be melodramatic," Tom said. The fire had burned down low and the night was darker than ever; Richard and Junior slept, their hats moving up and down on their faces as they breathed deep. Tom was beside him, because of course he showed up whenever no one else was watching.

"You killed me," Percy said, staring into the fire. "You took everything I had."

Tom's smile was cruel, a mocking look on a face that belonged more in an old movie than on a human man. He reached out to Percy and leaned in, as smooth and debonair as Clark Gable when he kissed Percy's cheek. "Am I the bad boyfriend in this picture, then?"

Percy left the fireside and walked alone along the lake shore toward the tree that stood alone, branches trailing into the still water. The moon reflected silver in the lake, and by the tree, the Abomination waited. It was more terrifying close up, its snake eyes full of hunger and loneliness and hate. Percy looked up at it, still reluctant to draw close. Its nails were like razors, sharp and black, dripping with what might be blood. The two looked at each other for what seemed like ages, the Abomination's dark eyes staring into his until all he could see in them was his own image, reflected back.

"Get it!" Richard shouted from behind, pelting towards them with his gun out like a cowboy at high noon. The moon was gone and the sun blazed overhead, direct and burning against Percy's pale skin. Percy turned back to the Abomination, which didn't move. It merely looked at him, resigned to its fate.

"I've met an abomination before, and he doesn't look like you," Percy told it. He drew his sword and shot the hunters dead in their chests. It made sense at the time.

They faded away. The Abomination grinned, human teeth that turned to sharp teeth in a troll face covered with stones and vines for hair, turning into a phoenix that flapped her wings in mid-air, her feathers glistening in the sun.

"What was the point of that, Jeanne?" he asked hollowly. She flew over and landed on his shoulder, sharp talons digging into it and making him bleed. When he put the sword back in its sheath, it stuck firmly and refused to be drawn again.

"Appearances can be deceiving," said the phoenix, drawing her beak fondly through his hair. "Are you ready to go?"

Most people of the world acknowledge that dreams are impossible to remember in their entirety. The dreamer can remember the chase but not the chaser, or the lover but not the reasons why. This is because dreams are simultaneously incredibly weighty and also as insubstantial as fog over a lake-- there, yes, but impossible to touch or to see through. Time changed and things shifted as necessary to further the dream along.

One species is different. Centaurs remember their dreams, walk through the ephemeral landscapes of Plarr, Denore, and Layth, with hardly any difficulty. Because of this, "civilised" people call centaurs "beasts" and do not invite them to parties. Percy was very glad in that moment that he was not a centaur, since he would be very happy if he forgot all about this.

"Yes, let's go."

 

* * *

 

The first time they camped, Jeanne perched on the branch of a tree and preened herself. Her feathers glowed, catching the light like a dreamcatcher caught dreams. The magic was an American one, dreamcatchers, but other cultures had used it as well. Percy had learned very little from History of Magic, but he had learned about dreamcatchers during a brief independent project on the magics of the Americas. Professor Binns has given in a lower grade than he ought to have given, since he preferred the histories of the goblins.

He wondered if anyone thought to put a dreamcatcher over his head to protect him while he slept.

"That was a cruel thing to do," he told Jeanne firmly. He had his knees drawn to his chest, arms around him. He hadn't liked the way the Dreamworld had changed and slid askew, hadn't liked the feel of a sword in his hand, hadn't liked choosing instinct over logic.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were inhumanly kind, but also ruthless and dark.

"You aren't worthy of my company," she said. "You weren't before and you aren't now, but I had to know if you could become worthy at all."

"I have to be 'worthy' to get your help?"

She flew down and nested in the flames of the fire, head peering out at him in a graceful arch. "Isn't it the same with you? Punish Slytherins because they deserve it, even if it’s the Gryffindors casting the spells. Don't turn Fred and George in because they're family and it would make your mother mad. Never question that your judgment is the right one, because it's the one that you're making and you have to be right."

"My judgment _is_ the right one! I know how much thought I put into making the decisions I make. Others make decisions on a snap, prejudice themselves by basing belief on opinion or instinct rather than reason."

"Reason isn't everything," she said.

Percy huffed. "Yes, of course you would say so. How can you shift shapes the way you do? That isn't something phoenixes are able to do, from what I've read."

"No," she allowed. "But I can do whatever I want in a dream. Now, you don't need to sleep, but I do, so hush, Dreamer."

Time sped up. Percy watched the new day climb over the horizon shakily until the sun had crested in the sky. Then Jeanne was ready to lead them on.

They travelled. Because it was a quest, it was long and hard. They wandered under Jeanne's guidance, sometimes near-starving as they navigated the Plains of William. They passed a packed theatre, filled with the characters of at least five different plays putting on a production that starred Beatrice, King Harry, and Viola. The play looked promising, but Jeanne made them carry on, nipping at Percy's ear when he tried to stop.

Of course, they didn't need to eat, but somehow hunger began to gnaw its way into Percy anyway, forcing him to look at everything as an opportunity to eat or not eat, changing the way he looked at plants and streams. Percy passed the time by remembering his Herbology and Astronomy lessons. He catalogued the endless, strange plants and animals that appeared and disappeared-- he learned of Gragsnarks, of mushrooms that grew tall enough to be houses, of rain orchids that sang sorrow, of the Nibri that clouded your heart and bred dislike of things that were new to you, of the Nargles that hid behind a façade of love and stole little bits of you over time. Jeanne would help him, sitting on his shoulder or flying overhead, teaching him all the things he didn't know.

Percy liked to learn. He was a good student, the kind that took notes and studied before every test, and revised their notes. There was a reason that he was a prefect, and it wasn't just that he liked to boss everyone about, as Fred claimed.

Endless battles raged every time they passed a Tragedy. Phantom soldiers charged one another in full battle regalia. Poisoners slipped by in the shadows, and kings died more often than they lived. Percy had tried to draw his sword at one point, when a large battle went past, but the sword refused to budge.

"You're not worthy," Jeanne told him flatly. He was not impressed.

When they finally reached the Stage Curtains, Percy heaved a sigh of relief.

"We are hardly safe yet," said the phoenix, since she had no respect for him and liked to make him feel horrible about himself. "We are actually in more danger now than we were before."

Percy rolled his eyes. "This is the Dreamworld. What could possibly go wrong here, when we are aware of the dreaming?" He pushed aside the thick velvet stage curtains and stepped through. The plains instantly melted away into a forest, thick and dark with the smell of wet leaves and mossy growths. There were hoofmarks in the earth, and clear stone marked the path. "See? There's even a path that's well-kept through the forest."

The phoenix huffed a sigh, clearly convinced that he was the stupidest mortal that she had ever had the keeping of. "Not everything is as it appears. Must I scar it on your forehead if I expect you to learn from me?"

Something about her wording confused Percy for a moment and everything lit up in green fire that lashed through the forest, as painfully bright as the Killing Curse; a woman's scream echoed through the underbrush; a boy's voice said, "I can decide for myself who is the wrong sort, thanks."

_("Harry Potter?" Tom had asked._

_"Yes," Percy said, letting his quill slip over the page and drip as he tried to gather his thoughts. "They say he killed the Dark Lord. After your time, I suppose."_

_And Tom had been silent for so long after that….)_

Percy turned to look back, but the Curtains had closed and wouldn't be reopened. "There's nowhere to go but forward," he informed the phoenix. The fire was gone, and possibly hadn't been there at all.

"Finally, some sense," she said. She didn't seem too happy about it, though. "It appears we cannot go back. Hopefully, you're ready for this next step."

She launched herself off of his shoulder, flying high overhead, and didn't return when Percy found his arms grabbed and a club taken to his head. His last sight was a quivering pink snout.

If a dreamer is knocked unconscious for a time in the Dreamworld, but cannot leave, they might retreat to a more pleasant dream for a time before returning to the unpleasant one. Percy found himself in bed beneath Tom, who was giving him a delighted look. The sheets were dark blue, a shade darker than Percy's eyes.

"After ignoring me for so long, now you come to my bed!" Tom said, a smug smile on his face.

"I did not," Percy said snippily. "I was knocked unconscious by a Pig-Man. Let me go." He struggled to get out from under the other boy, who simply pressed harder to him and pinned his hands down.

"Absolutely not. And you should take more care around the Pig-Men, if you're in their dominion."

"What do you know about it?" Percy shot a dirty look up at the other boy, who looked singularly unimpressed. "You're a figment of my imagination."

Tom paused for a moment, leaning over Percy. His face was so close that his dark hair fell into Percy's eyes; it smelled like ink. "Are dreams imaginary?" he asked at last. "They exist. You experience them. It's not as if you're pretending the dream is happening right now. It's actually happening. The dream is true, even if the events therein don't happen in the World of Waking."

He shifted, pressing their groins together and rubbing himself along Percy's body. Percy gasped, arching up into the other boy's grip. Tom kissed him then, slow, drugging kisses that made Percy's toes curl and his eyes water because this _wasn't real_. Tom had never been like this. Tom hated touching him. He could realise that in the aftermath. Tom had to steel himself every time he touched Percy, visibly keeping himself from flinching if he had to pat Percy on the back. Or later, when he had realised that Percy had… a ridiculous attraction to him, when he would touch Percy's cheek or hair. He didn't do _this_ , though.

"Percy…." Tom released Percy enough so that Percy could wrap his arms around him as Tom's mouth moved down Percy's neck. Their lips met again, and Percy didn't care that this wasn't real, that this was a dream, that Tom had broken every bit of his trust and stuck him in this place-- he didn't care--

"No!" Tom shrieked suddenly. Percy looked at him and--

Percy was back in the forest, approaching the village of the Pig-Men. The village of the Pig-Men was a collection of small country cottages. They had rough thatching and proper wizarding front yards that consisted of tangles of wildflowers, foxgloves, and rowans. The cottages had aspidistras in the windows, their green leaves visible as Percy was marched past to the town square. He went past front gardens and duck ponds, piglets riding toy broomsticks that hovered a few feet in the air and made them squeal with delight, and a thousand and one other scenes that showed that despite their porcine heritage, these were proper wizarding folk. They could be reasoned with, talked to. They could explain why Percy was being marched to the town square with his hands tied in front of him with a rough rope like a witch to the pyre.

Percy was forced to his knees in front of a throne. The Pig Chief wore a crown of brambles and a great wizards' robe, his well-muscled forearms straining as he crossed his arms and stared at Percy.

"Who dares?" he asked mildly, in a posh tenor voice. "Who dares to enter our forest when he has not been invited?

"I am terribly sorry," Percy said, trying to lift his chin despite the hands forcing his head submissively down. "If it's your forest, I didn't know. I'm trying to get to the Door to Waking."

The Pig Chief took a step off his throne, walking closer to stop in front of Percy. His eyes were hardening, beady and dark over his snout. "'If' it's our forest?" he asked. "Are you not taking us seriously, Dreamer? Who are you to judge us as being worthy of forming an independent democracy in the Forest of Trees?"

"I don't know who owns every part of the Dreamworld! I'm certain you can own whatever you wish here." Percy was very tired of this already. All of these creatures who kept expecting something from him and being rude about it along the way.

"And we wouldn't be able to own whatever we wished in the World of Waking?" the Pig Chief asked, voice soft with warning.

Percy didn't heed it.  
"You don't even exist in the World of Waking!" Percy exclaimed. The Pig-Men hushed suddenly, eyes turning as one to the grave Pig Chief.

"You are definitely not the kind of wizard we wish to associate with," the Pig Chief said sadly. "So very rude." He looked back over his shoulder and gestured to his guards. "Please, have the chef prepare him for dinner. We might as well get some use out of him."

"What?!" Percy squawked. The Pig-Men who had walked him to the Chief grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him up. "You can't be serious."

"Why not? We're just animals, aren't we?" The Pig Chief sighed, sweeping his velvet robe aside as he sat down on his throne. "If you show penitence and apologise, beg for your life, perhaps we will spare you." He stared down at Percy, a cold smile beginning to unfurl. "I don't believe you'll be able to humble yourself, but you could try."

Percy stared at him, still utterly flummoxed as he was dragged away to the kitchens. The Pig Chief had a large cottage, more of an estate really, with a sprawling lawn and greenery in every window. It was the biggest building in the town. Percy threw himself against the hands holding him, feeling their grips tightening into his arms and begin to bruise his flesh. "You can't be serious," he repeated, trying to vault forward but held fast by the Pig-Mens' hands. "You can't want to eat a human."

"Why?" one of the guards asked lowly. "You eat bacon, don't you? You've even dreamed about it."

Percy was silent and still for long enough to the Pig-Men to throw him into the kitchens. They stripped him of his sword and wand. He found himself suddenly in a cold room, the Chef and his Aides pointing their wands at his naked body and dousing him with water. He found himself suddenly with his mouth washed out with soap. He found himself suddenly tied to pyre in front of the Pig Chief, staring up. His hair had been buzzed off, just the barest red wisp on his head, and his body was almost as pink as the Pig-Mens' from scrubbing. He was hairless, bare, and very confused still from the way time moved in dreams. Lemon juice had been rubbed into his skin, stinging the cracks in his skin, and his legs were almost green from crushed basil.

"Do you apologise?" asked the Pig Chief idly, clearly knowing the answer.

Percy said nothing. With a wave of his hand, the Pig Chief had the fires lit, licking at his feet. The sweet smell of the wood smoke began to choke Percy's nose. They were, then, serious. Entirely serious, that they would eat him. Ridiculous.

"I apologise," he said sharply, distinctly. The Pig Chief only raised an eyebrow.

"I can tell when you're lying to save your own skin," he said.

The flames began to eat Percy's flesh, and Percy screamed.

The day started again, and the Pig-Men roughly tied him to the pyre.

"Do you apologise?" asked the Pig Chief.

"Yes!" Percy claimed, as the fires started to rise until they consumed him.

"Do you apologise?" asked the Pig Chief, after the second time Percy died.

"I already said I'm sorry!" Percy went up in flames.

"Do you apologise?"

"Whyever should I bloody apologise?"

"You were rude," said the Pig Chief, and Percy burned again. The next time, the Pig Chief asked lightly, "Do you apologise?"

Percy looked at him, the green stains from the basil seasoning mixing with the grey and black of ash. "No. I don't _apologise_. You keep eating me."

The Pig Chief laughed. "Maybe you ate my cousin," he suggested. "How would you know?" And Percy was engulfed in flames again.

Percy died again and again, fire eating up the lines left by ink stains. His skin caught flame, his mouth filled with charcoal and dust, his wrists bloodied from trying to fight against the ropes tying him down. Once or twice, he caught sight of Tom through the lashes of fire. The expression on the older boy's face was tense, almost pained as he watched fire consume Percy from head to foot, from mind to soul.

Why would the Pig Chief do this? What was the point? All Percy had said was "if." "If" the Pig-Men owned the forest. If.

He had doubted.

_(Percy watched Tom watching him, the other boy's eyes familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.)_

He had doubted that someone unlike him could be worth anything.

_(He felt the heat eating away his toes again.)_

He had a habit of forming prejudices. He had a habit of judging others. Dreamers should know better than to get caught: he had told Jeanne that in Plarr. Was that why Jeanne had abandoned him to the pyre? Percy was caught. Somehow, he had managed to get himself stuck in a loop, unable to wake despite dying in the dream. Worse yet, he wasn't dying in real life. It just kept happening, again and again.

_("Don't kill me-- not again-- don't burn me. I can't taste good. I can't possibly-- I'm English. You know what they say about the food-- heavy, tasteless, really. Please. Please!")_

He told people all the time who to associate with and who not to associate with. He was ashamed of his own family for choosing some outdated sense of honor over providing for their own children. He judged them for having so many children. What was the point? Why keep having children you can't properly provide for when you know you're poor?

_("This is so. Bloody. Stupid!" Percy cried, wrecked. His own words nearly choked him, almost as bad as the smoke that blacked his lungs.)_

It was why he wanted to join the Ministry. He didn't even care about the position. He just wanted to be respectable, not another of those dirt poor Weasleys with too many mouths to feed. Dirty. Messy. Not fit to be invited to Pureblood society. Even Mrs. Longbottom hadn't wanted Neville to associate with them, and Ron and Neville were the same age! Cedric Diggory was their neighbor, and had never been allowed over to play. Was it really so wrong to judge others? They would judge him, after all.

_("You're going to taste so wonderful," the Pig Chief mused as the Chef sharpened his knives. "I believe we shall cut you up and serve fine steaks of your flesh alongside pasta and a wine sauce, perhaps some root vegetables roasted in an oven with balsamic and oil. Mm.")_

Wasn't he supposed to be better, though? Good enough at least to be able to do what people like Draco Malfoy couldn't, and apologise when he had done something wrong. Apologise for doubt. Apologise for expecting the worst and believing the worst even when the best was what happened.

"I am sorry," Percy said quietly.

The Pig Chief paused. "Are you?" he asked lightly. "How interesting. What for?"

"For doubt. For prejudice. For self-importance." Percy blinked reddened eyes and tried to breathe, but he just kept exhaling clouds of smoke. "For never giving the benefit of the doubt. For judging my parents. For blaming the victim. For being an utter _prat_ for my entire life."

Smiling, the Pig Chief gestured for them to cut him loose. "Wonderful. You and Jeanne may join us for dinner then. We're actually vegetarians, you know, and we have a wonderful fruit salad for dessert."

Percy burst into tears, and was not remotely ashamed for it.

 

* * *

 

That night, Percy was curled up in Tom's arms in a guest cottage. He had left Jeanne chatting with the Pig Chief, her feathers reminding him too much of the flames that had eaten him up more surely than the Pig-Men would ever have done. Tom's fingers, as long and elegant as any pianist's, stroked their way over Percy's shoulders gently. Percy's hair was still buzzed close to his head, but his flesh was unscarred and the ink stains were back, this time swirling on the back of his hand like a curl of a flame leaping up into the sky.

The real Tom wouldn't have touched him like this. The real Tom believed that boys shouldn't cry. He spoke sometimes of a "woman's place" and how men had to go out in the world, be strong, and make smart choices. He had thought Percy's father was weak, though Percy had showed promise. Might make a better man a good underling one day, Tom had said, and Percy had to hide how much it hurt, since Tom thought he was being complimentary.

"I'm dreaming up something you would never do. You would never touch me like this," Percy said. It was hard to form words, his voice rasping out through the ruin of his throat.

Tom pressed a kiss into the crown of Percy's head and rested his forehead against it, arms wrapped warmly around Percy's back. "I told you to take care around them," he said. He sighed. "I'm not certain how long I shall be able to stay. The Pig-Men will notice me here."

Snorting, Percy cuddled into the strong curve of Tom's shoulder. "How can they notice my imaginary friend?"

"I wouldn't question it too hard. You won't like the answer."

"Jeanne left me to be tortured, and she's chatting with my torturer." Percy found that hard to navigate, hard to _understand_. She wasn't a friend, but it was still a betrayal.

Tom sighed again. "She is a mentor, and this is a quest. Some things have to be done. Try not to hold it against her."

"Now I know you're nothing like Tom. What happened to mocking me for being melodramatic?"

"Or at least wait for your vengeance, then." Tom laughed, his chest rolling under Percy's cheek. He caught Percy's chin, and instead of heat, the kiss felt like ice, soothing its way into Percy's veins, cooling his fears and calming his heart.

Tom drew a blanket over their heads. "We would do this in the orphanage if we needed to be alone," he explained. His eyes were still red, but the color almost looked purple in the shadows. "A world of our own."

"Like a secret?" Percy curled his hands into Tom's crisp collar and tugged Tom down. Tom smelled like paper and ink, like a new book just waiting for Percy to read it, and his tongue tickled Percy's lips. The weight of him made Percy's stomach try to meet his torn throat. "A secret world." Percy breathed against Tom.

Tom smiled, suggesting, "It doesn't matter what happens in a secret world."

They kissed through the night, gentle and sweet and thorough, but when morning broke, Tom was gone.

Percy and Jeanne had to continue on, but Percy felt better regardless.

 

* * *

 

The Forest of Trees was full of a web of paths, endlessly forking at every possible moment to loop back again to different roads. Very few of the paths had a direct route out of the Forest, but going off the path was out of the question. Werewolves hunted in the trees, and vicious Nargles made their home in holly, mistletoe, and yew. Percy avoided talking to Jeanne when he could, but his silence didn't seem to bother her. Abandoning him to the Pig-Men hadn't made her feel guilty, and mentioning it to her had only made her say cryptically, _You will never change without a reason to change._

The fact that he had been perfectly comfortable with himself beforehand and had not wanted to change wasn't something she had considered. Then again, even he didn't believe himself.

Little Red Caps lived in the forest, girls with gremlin faces and red hoods over the heads. They feasted off of the blood spilled in the wars on the Plains of William and who seemed to take special pleasure in hunting the wolves, wearing their pelts like war trophies. Centaurs roamed between the trees, staring at him with baleful eyes whenever they met. The centaurs carried wicked spears with silver blades or bows made of yew; the women and men alike were bare-chested, the women sometimes with only one breast on their scarred chests and a hand too ready to place an arrow between Percy's eyes. The arrows themselves released in a burst of magic that was visible especially when the centaurs were hunting after nightfall. The half-men had sharp eyes that were capable of picking up things that Percy could have never hoped to see. There were groups of rebel Pig-Men in the trees as well, who were constantly working on a Revolution, launching attacks against Pig-Men settlements and wrecking the perfect English life that surrounded the others.

Percy was mostly sick of it all, and just wanted to go home.

"I should tell you not to trust her. Saying that seems like something I would do, doesn't it?" Tom asked, buffing an apple on his shirt. He walked beside Percy along the path, shoulders slumped. Jeanne was scouting up above the treetops.

"You have never been particularly trustworthy or trustful in general," Percy acknowledged.

"Hm." Tom shot him an irritated look. "I should tell you that no magical creature is ever to be trusted-- they are beneath us, and don't understand the ways of wizards."

"But?" Percy asked, biting around the word as surely as Tom bit into the apple.

"But…." Tom breathed in and out, looking off over the trees in the direction that Jeanne had flown off. "Phoenixes are sacred, but they are also vicious. They die and are reborn over and over again, and that takes its toll, especially as they age. When they trust, it's forever, simply because it's so hard to gain that trust. She needs to test you."

"You're right. This doesn't sound like you at all."

Tom showed off a strangled, unhappy smile and fell silent until Jeanne came into view, whereupon Percy realised that Tom wasn't beside him at all.

"Tell me a story?" Percy asked Jeanne that night, staring up into the sky. He wasn't up to pretending to sleep and having time spiral out around him until he couldn't keep track of day or night anymore. He was tired of the moon turning to the sun and back again, of the stars having conversations, of seeing goddesses make love to shepherds in the night.

She sighed, preening her feathers irritably. "Are you speaking to me again, then?" she asked.

"You must understand why I have a problem with this."

"Why shouldn't you have to go up in flames at least as many times as I do?" She sighed. "Yes, Dreamer, I know why you feel betrayed, but I have never claimed to coddle you. I always have your best interests at heart."

_("I have your best interests at heart," Percy told Ginny as he took the slim, black book out of her hands. "You know you can't keep it. It probably belongs to Flourish and Blotts. It's likely that it fell from one of the shelves and got mixed up in things when Father and Mr. Malfoy were fighting." Ginny had pouted and cried, but Percy took the diary anyway. Later, as his heart broke and his hands stained themselves in ink, Percy selfishly wished he had left Tom to Ginny.)_

"Tell me a story, please," he repeated.

Jeanne tilted her head back, staring up at the stars as her feathers caught their light, making her glitter and glow. "Once upon a time," she said slowly, "There were two men and a woman who were chained to the Earth. The chains lashed deep into the Earth's core, dragging the three closer to the source of the Earth's power. The three were the best their people had to offer, a Dark Lord, a Light Lady, and a Grey Lord. This was after the fall of Camelot, when everything seemed bleak, and people desperately needed saving. Their blood dripped into the Earth, and their hearts were open to what needed to be done.

"The Dark Lord didn't care about what was right or just, but wanted to save his family and protect his people-- not for their own sake, but so that his own life could remain unchanged. Guile, shadow, and poison were things he was familiar with, but his loyalty was fiercer than any lion's pride ever was. He killed whoever got in his way in the service of protecting that which was important to him.

"The Light Lady knew what was right and just at all times, which led her to making decisions any would see as ruthless. She had been the first to offer to chain herself to the Earth, and the others had followed suit since they didn't believe a woman could possibly be braver than them. Like the Dark Lord, she killed whoever crossed her, but only if there was no other option and always after a fair trial. Like sunlight, she could burn you if you weren't careful. The ends justify the means, as long as your goals are the right sort.

"The Grey Lord did not want to chain himself to the Earth. He believed that there were always options other than the obvious, that everyone had their own views and reasons for doing what they did. This choked him, preventing him from making the decisions he needed to because he was always so worried about harming others. He agreed out of necessity, and they were nearly too late because he waited so long."

"Too late for what?" Percy asked, curious. The legends about the Three Lords were always unclear on that point.

Jeanne trilled, an amused sound. "There was a war, you see. What else could bring such three different people together? The Fall of Camelot destroyed many things. There were still faeries then, but they began to ready the last of their ships and flee the land. With Arthur and Merlin gone, what was the point of staying in a land that was becoming increasingly hostile to magic? But the faerie had nurtured the ley lines. When they left, they took much of the magic in England. The Three Lords forced magic back into the land by making themselves anchors. If they aren't available, magic in England will die."

"Was the war with the faerie, then?"

"Somewhat. Not entirely. Everyone was fighting. Your enemy was likely to be standing next to you as across the battlefield. The Three Lords brought order, the great Light Lady with her phoenix at her side and her longsword in her hand, the clever Dark Lord with his knives and cloak of shadows, the Grey Lord with his ghost army. The Grey Lord headed everything, talking and trying to find solutions that all parties could deal with. The first of the goblin treaties was put into place because of the Grey Lord's kind words, but where words failed, the Dark and Light were there to begin the fight."

"And eventually, they started fighting each other," Percy said, because he knew where this was going.

"And eventually, they killed each other," Jeanne agreed sadly.

Percy frowned. "But why is there never a Grey Lord anymore? Or a Light Lord? The Dark Lord seems to pop up again and again."

The sound that came from Jeanne's beak them was disgusted. "None of those have been a true Dark Lord. Grindelwald and Voldemort... they are simply potential Lords who thought they could claim the power without going through the work. And there are plenty that have tried to take the position of a Light Lord as well, whatever they may have called themselves. There's been no one appropriate or worthy yet. The Three Lords had many faults, and I would rather not see the same mistakes repeated."

"And the Grey Lord?"

Her feathers ruffled out, bristling over her shoulders and around her face. "You don't want to know what they did to the Grey Lord when he died. Some things hurt deep enough that the power takes time to recover, and claim a new host. Pretend to sleep, Dreamer. We have another trial tomorrow."

"Will this one involve torture?" Percy asked. He could taste bitter ink on his tongue, thick like blood.

She blinked at him rapidly, cocking her head. "That will never happen again," she said firmly.

A weight settled into Percy's chest, warm and solid, at those words. "All right, then," he said, and let the night slip away. The world flickered, colors blurring and swirling around him. It was like water going down a drain or a twister in the sky, full of color and light. The next thing he knew, they were walking down the path, approaching the banks of a deep pond. It was small, full of lily pads and green algae. They stopped at the edge and Jeanne landed on Percy's shoulder, her sharp talons digging in through his robes.

"We request an audience with the Frog King," she said. At Percy's feet, the water began to bubble, burping up mud and flies.

"Will this actually get us something, other than teaching me a lesson?" he asked. He kept a weather eye on the mud, which was beginning to suck him down.

"It is the shortest way to reach the Drethazi Mountains, where the Door to Waking is located. Through the Frog King's pond, we'll be able to move from the Forest of Trees to the mountain base. The Door is at the peak."

"Damn," Percy said. The mud was reaching his knees now. "Oh, my mum would wash my mouth out if she heard me say that."

"We shan't tell her then, shall we?" Jeanne said.

The mud sucked them under.

 

* * *

 

The kingdom of the Frog King was known as Canor. Canor was an independent kingdom, with no ties to Mars or any other kingdoms within the world of dreams. This was because the waters of Canor connected to water everywhere, and to anger the Canorians was to cause the water to turn against you, including the water that made up the body of every soldier sent to rout them from their pond. Their main trade was that of bodies.

Dead bodies of fish were sent to the tables of the dark-elves in the Drethazi, as well as tables in the port-town of Plarr. Killing fish was strictly against the law, since it was a matter of economy, and doing so would cause the killer to lose the hospitality that the Frog King might otherwise grant him.

Percy and Jeanne were escorted through bubbling hallways and caverns into the grand palace of the Frog King. Stalactites and stalagmites formed elaborate sculptures, and sunken ships were playgrounds for fish children, who sped by in schools of glittering scales. Their laughter lingered in the water far after they had passed,

"It's been some time since I passed. Is the Frog King well?" Jeanne asked. Her feathers were dimmed to ash in the depths of the water, her vibrant red, orange, and yellow feathers turned ash grey.

_(Percy could taste the ashes on his skin, feel the fire consume him again as his flesh burst open like an apple in the coals.)_

The fish exchanged looks. Percy got a distinct impression of shame, with no clear reason why. Reading the expressions of fish was not a skill that many wizards could boast of.

"He is tolerably well, Mistress Phoenix," said one of the guards. His scales seemed shinier than those of the others, and he wore a medal on his back. "Life has been difficult since the late Queen died, along with their children."

"All of them?" Jeanne stared at him, her feathers puffing out in dismay.

"Unfortunately, yes. The King has been inconsolable. Perhaps he will perk up to see your fair presence again."

The painted walls of the castle-cavern closed over them. Elaborate scenes of battles with sharks and men with the lower bodies of octopi covered the walls, vicious smiles on their faces and blood on their bare chests. The water grew shallower, and on a beach at the far end of the cavern was a throne made of seashells, with a lilypad seat. There sat the Frog King. His skin was translucent, so Percy could see his every organ and the pulse of blood in his veins. The crown on his head was made of thin vines, and at its center was a round white stone.

"Jeanne." The king exhaled the greeting like it took everything he had.

Jeanne flew over to him, her feathers turning from grey to red as she left the water. The logic of how she had been in the water, how they had breathed in the water, escaped Percy entirely, and thinking of it made it feel like his lungs were filling with water. "Oh Henry," she said. She let out a sad, lingering note, bending her head so that her tears dripped over him. Her song echoed through the cavern, painful in its intensity. There was no visible difference in the Frog King, though.

"Your tears are unnecessary," he said gently, "but thank you." He turned his eyes to Percy, his tongue flicking out to dab at them. "And who is your young friend?"

"Percy Weasley," Percy said, making sure to bow low. He didn't want to make the same mistake with the Frog King that he had made with the Pig Chief. "It's an honor to meet you, Your Majesty." He tried to suffuse the words with enough meaning that he wouldn't be drawn and quartered. He must have succeeded, or perhaps the Frog King was accustomed enough to courtier fish telling him what he wished to hear, whereas the Democracy of the Pigs was new enough that the Pig Chief still needed to fight to keep his position.

"A pleasure, Master Weasley," the Frog King said smoothly. "I'm sure you're both here for a reason, but please feel free to rest in the chambers of the inner castle. You must be longing for real beds after your travels."

Percy opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of the piranha guards made him close it again. "Thank you, Your Majesty. That's very generous," he allowed.

The inner castle of the Frog King was solely for land-dwelling guests. The sandy floors were clean and bright, and sleep hammocks hung beside walls that had crushed stone and shell mosaics. There was a deep fire pit for Jeanne to nest in, and it was after a dinner of seaweed salad that they discussed the plight of the Frog King.

"There was a princess, a human," Jeanne explained. "She fell in love with a frog, and that frog turned into a prince."

"I think I've heard this story," Percy said. He smiled. "She was selfish and didn't want to kiss him, which she had promised to do if he retrieved her Remembrall from the bottom of a pond. Eventually she did, though, and her kiss turned him into a man worthy of her."

"Yes. Very disturbing, that such a selfish girl should get a reward." Jeanne snorted. "However, do you know the original tale, where the prince's manservant had waited the long years for his master to be found again? He was called Iron Henry, because he had iron bands around his heart to keep it from breaking. When his master was found, Henry's heart healed, and the bands broke. He didn't realise that the curse didn't break. It just moved."

"Oh Merlin." Curses were tricky things, and very few things could break a curse if it truly was a curse and not a charm or an enchantment. True love was one, but it didn't sound like the princess had been in love with the prince who had been turned into a frog. "Iron Henry is the Frog King?"

Jeanne nodded. "He is. He found life in the pond more freeing than being a manservant to a capricious master like the prince, and became king of his own kingdom. He found a fine frog lady, settled down, and they had many tadpoles." She paused, digging herself more firmly into the fire. She kicked soot over her feathers like another bird would kick dust over itself while dust-bathing. "It sounds like something must have happened, though," she continued sadly. "The fish and the frogs have a battle with many of the sea creatures, including the octopus-people, who invade on occasion."

"Octopus-people." Percy recalled the murals on the walls, vicious creatures with black tentacles and spears. They had been beautiful, in a way, and horrific in another, much like the Abomination had been.

"A warrior race," Jeanne said. "Their people esteem valor and find bravery in death. They are at war with merfolk, but they often take mer-wives and -husbands, since their magics are sympathetic." She paused. "There is something going on here. I don't believe that the Frog King will let us go yet."

"Torture?" Percy asked dryly, not willing to let it go. She puffed up all her feathers and glared. He laughed, and let it go. "All right, then." He laid his head against the cave wall and breathed. He could hear music playing somehow or somewhere, a soft, breathy vocalist surrounded by a chorus of ribbiting bullfrogs. The sound reverberated through his bones like when he passed the Muggles playing their boomboxes in the streets in London.

"Tell me a story?" He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but the words came out like he was begging. He was remembering London, and his family, and Tom telling him about street vendors in the 40s and the way that the matrons had ushered lines of orphans through the streets when they had to go to the shops. Remembering made the world flicker strangely, like the dream was half-way to shattering.

Jeanne exhaled a little puff of smoke. "Aren't you worried that you sound like a child? That I'll think you aren't competent, that you need saving?"

He cut his eyes to her, lip curling. "Stop testing me," he demanded. "You know perfectly well." She knew that he wasn't competent, that he couldn't save himself. That he hadn't saved himself when it really mattered.

"What do I know?" Jeanne asked. Her tone hurt, cold and ruthless in a way that made him feel such self-loathing he could hardly breathe. When he said nothing, she said, "Why don't you tell me a story for once, Percy Weasley?"

He looked over at her, where she was arranging herself in the flames. The sight still made him half-sick, so he looked away. "I don't want to tell a story."

"Sometimes, stories need to be told."

But this was one that he really didn't want to tell, and also the only one he had at the moment. It defined his existence here, after all. "I took the diary from my sister," he began, staring into the ceiling to avoid the sight of the fire. "My father always says, over and over again, to never write in anything if you can't see where it keeps its brain. I did plan to give it back to Flourish and Blotts, because it must have been a mistake. Dad and Mr. Malfoy were fighting, so it must have gotten knocked off a shelf and into the trolley."

"When was this?"

"Early summer," Percy explained. "We hadn't gotten our Hogwarts letters yet, but we got a letter in the post-- we'd won a sweepstakes for store credit, but it would expire. Mum was pleased about the credit, but a bit upset since she had wanted to see Gilderoy Lockhart, and he wasn't going to be in until later in the year. Since we had a fair idea what most of the books would be for Hogwarts the next year, we went to buy some anyway. I wonder if it was a ploy. It can't be a mistake that Mr. Malfoy was there, and then that diary appeared."

"That diary?" Jeanne questioned. "Whose diary was it, Percy?"

Percy shook his head. "I should have brought it back. But it was just a journal, and there was never time to go back to the shop, so I started to write some notes in it about Transfiguration next year. I was reading the books already, since I liked to read them all through once before hearing the lectures. The diary, it absorbed the notes, and it _corrected_ me-- told me I was wrong, that one's ability to conjure was directly impacted not only by one's will, but by one's attunement to the magical atmosphere of the given area, since creating something from nothing requires a sympathetic nature in the immediate environs. It was brilliant, and I had to ask more, so we talked.

"We talked about classes, and spells, and the Ministry. He kept asking more personal questions, though, and there was no reason not to tell him. He was only a book; he could never repeat anything I said. So I told him about my family, and every thought that ran through my head." Percy blushed. "He would talk to me as well, tell me about growing up in the 1940s, about the War, about his Professors. He went to Hogwarts too. He was a Slytherin, but if Harry Potter can be friends with Slytherins, why can't I? Sometimes it was hard to get through a day without talking to him. I would try, sometimes, just to prove that I still could. But if I tried too often, I would… lose time. I would get confused, and wake up with ink all over me and my hands still on the diary. He told me what he was going to do before he did it. That he needed me, but a willing sacrifice could be just as powerful or more-so than an unwilling one, if asked correctly. He was so… kind. He could… he did something sometimes, so we could meet in the pages of the diary, in a world he created with words. We would talk about politics and…. In retrospect, I know he was using me, but I didn't know then. So I said 'of course.' I didn't expect it to feel like that, or to end up here."

"Whose diary, Percy?" Jeanne asked again, gently.

He drew his wand, which he kept forgetting he had. He drew the letters in the air in the same red as Tom's eyes: Tom Marvolo Riddle. With a wave of the wand, they began to move.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT, they said.

Percy let the wand fall to his side, and the words disappeared.

Percy waited for her judgment. He deserved it. After all, he had known. He had walked into this knowing, but how could a sixteen-year-old trapped in a diary be guilty of all the things that Voldemort had done? Tom and Voldemort weren't the same person, even if they were.

"Oh Percy." She drew herself up out of the fire pit and flew over, showering him with ash even as her nails dug into him, gouging deep marks into his flesh. Her tears fell on his hair, wet and shimmering like gold before they disappeared. "You must have loved him very much," she said, more kindly than even his mother would have.

He couldn't let that stand. "I'm not gay," he denied. She didn't bother to argue, just preening his hair. The tears trickled through, making a little bit of the sick feeling go away.

"You were doing what you thought was right," she said, and her benediction didn't change the dirty feeling that he could feel down at his core. The world greyed out around them, nothing but shadows and the whispers of monsters.

"Percy," she tried to say as a sudden trumpet wail made the walls shudder.

"You have the strangest dreams, Percy Weasley." It was the flower elf, the little girl with a tulip on her head instead of hair. She was sitting across from the bonfire, her hands folded carefully in her lap. "You can't keep just laying around. It's almost time to wake up. England needs you. Or it will. You're not fully baked yet. You're still a bit unfinished." She looked over Percy's shoulder and her eyes narrowed. Tom had been standing there, frowning, but her gaze made him disappear into nothing. She nodded, satisfied. "Not too much longer now, Percy," she said. "Take heart."

She disappeared. Jeanne hadn't noticed any of this, watching Percy steadfastly.

"What does it matter what I thought?" he asked, and the world blurred and spun and shifted until the day changed and Percy was standing in front of the Frog King, bowing carefully with a phoenix on his shoulder.

The pulse of Iron Henry's heart in his chest was visible, making his thin skin thump out like a hand on a bongo drum. His face was impossible for Percy to read, amphibian features too alien for Percy to begin to understand. His voice was something else. It moved whoever heard it like a symphony, all careful coordination and a crescendo of emotion. If Percy closed his eyes, it sounded like a human was speaking: a particularly articulate one.

"You know of our war with the octopus-people, but have you explained to your companion?"

"Not the particulars," Jeanne murmured. Her weight on Percy's shoulder was a comfort in the dripping cavern that made up the Frog King's throne room.

Henry turned his horizontal-pupiled eyes to Percy. "My kingdom has been here forever, and also for no time at all. Freshwater is my domain-- ponds, rivers, lakes. The problem is that to be able to treat with Mars… they have mostly seas there, and vast red oceans. Their freshwater is kept carefully guarded, oasises that they seal off. They hoard freshwater like others do gold. I can't gain access, but saltwater is a different matter. The octopus-people and merfolk are the guardians of the seas in Mars."

Percy didn't understand the Dreamworld and Mars. Wizards understood the importance of dreams and the planets, but as separate matters, not intertwined. How dreams conflated the two just confused Percy on the deepest of levels.

"You want an empire?"

"He already has an empire," Jeanne corrected. "He needs to expand his empire."

Henry nodded. "Just so. The octopus-people-- they call themselves cecaelia-- have not taken kindly to my attempts to colonise their oceans. Their latest attack was a year ago, when they-- they found my wife and tadpoles. They killed them, and…." He breathed for a moment, in and out.

Percy found himself thinking about his mother. Theoretically, Percy had uncles. Theoretically, Molly Weasley had brothers. Your brothers were always your brothers, no past tense about it, even when your brothers were dead. Molly spoke of them sometimes; the words always seemed like they hurt, made her breath catch and her voice quaver.

They had been twins, like Fred and George.

"They were pranksters like them, too," Molly had said one afternoon. The house was almost never quiet, but sometimes Arthur took everyone out to play Quidditch and other games. Percy didn't like sports much, so he would stay with his mother and help her clean, or read to her while she worked, or sing old Celestina Warbeck songs with her as they came up on the radio. He had always understood his mother better than his father.

"Both of them?" Percy had asked plaintively. He had been eight still, but he hadn't given up hope that one of his family members would be like him until Ginny had become as Quidditch-obsessed as the rest of them. Ginny was still Percy's last hope for a family member that liked him, at least, even if she wasn't _like_ him, however.

"Both of them," Molly agreed with a great sigh. Her wand twitched lazily and the dishes floated through the air, covered in sparkling suds that glimmered in the sunshine. "They would always get me into trouble too. They were very charming, so they could convince anyone of anything, but I never had the skill. I was a girl, and I had to show restraint."

"That was mean," Percy said, with all the sternness that being eight allowed him.

"They never meant to be mean," Molly said gently. "I always forgave them, since they never meant to be cruel or get me into trouble."

"Hmph." Percy wasn't so sure. Did what they _meant_ really matter if it wasn't what they _did_? "Why haven't I met them?" he asked.

Molly inhaled, and her breath skipped like a stone over the pond in the Weasleys back field. He knew then that what she was about to say hurt her even worse than when Fred and George and gotten into a fight and George had run away. She had gone all quiet and focused then-- it had scared him, and he never forgot the look in her eyes until George had been found.

"They died," she said.

Without tact, he had asked, "How?"

Her eyes had closed. "I'll tell you when you're older," she had said.

She had never told him, but Percy had always been too curious for his own good, and it was a matter of public record. Fabian and Gideon Prewett had been killed by a group of Death Eaters. They had been tortured, flayed, skinned, and finally quartered, their bodies pulled apart by a team of Thestrals. Percy hadn't been able to sleep for weeks after reading the newspaper articles, and he hadn't been able to tell his mother why.

"What did they do?" Jeanne asked Henry gravely, her body still and tense.

The king turned to look at her. "The octopus-people are great users of magic and spells, but their true power lies in working magic on their souls. The chieftain has a staff with a large pearl on the end, opalescent and pure. His magic has grown significantly more powerful since he murdered my family. I believe he is storing their souls in the pearl and using them to gain power."

"Their souls?" Percy felt sick. Blood magic was one thing. The history of it was complicated and tied to the rise of magic in England. Soul magic was something else entirely. The violation of it could kill a wizard if he still lived while it was being enacted. At best, his magic might never work again. The kiss of a Dementor was one of the most barbaric in the world, there were one or two countries that refused to open discussions with the magicians of Great Britain because of it.

"Frogs and fish, we don't have much use for magic," Henry said. How a frog managed that regal regard was something that Percy just didn't understand. "But a wizard could easily break the pearl and release the souls of my family. Of course, if you are worried for your life-- if you just need to get home-- you can leave my pond and go on to the Drethazi Mountains as you wish. This is nothing more than a request from a stranger." He paused. "We will have to fight them to get to the chieftain. You could end up forced to stay in the Dreamworld forever, dying endlessly on the spear of an octopus-man. I cannot guarantee your safety."

If Percy had been home, in the safe mortal world that he came from, he would have said no. He would have contacted the authorities, and put the situation out of his mind by making it someone else's problem.

Percy was not at home, and hadn't been home in some time. He knew what the phoenix at his side would say: if he was just being noble, he should go home, but that appearances were deceiving and being good was worth more than appearing good. He knew what Tom would say: Percy should tell the Frog King to go to hell, because it wasn't his problem. He even thought he knew what Harry Potter would say-- that there were other wizards in the Dreamworld that would just wake up if they died, unlike Percy. Most importantly, though, he knew what his mother would say.

"I'll help."

 

* * *

 

Time in the Dreamworld moved as liquid did. It flowed and twisted itself into whatever shape it needed to fill, and within moments of agreeing to help the Frog King, Percy was part of a fully-armed battalion in the waters of Mars, shooting stunning spells through the murky red water under a sun that seemed different despite being the same sun that shone on Earth. The flailing tentacles of the octopus-people curled and lashed; the sharks bulled their way into the lines of fish people armed with turtle-shields, teeth flashing, water clouding with blood. The chieftain fought with his people. His staff was recognisable, lightning lancing through it to shock frog-warriors into death or paralysis.

Dead bodies of the fish, frogs, and octopus-people alike were taken by the Frog King's people and stored carefully in the back of dolphin-caravans, heading doubtlessly east to the Drethazi, where their bodies would be cooked, sautéed or baked, eaten by the hungry teeth of the dark-elves in the mountains.

Percy lowered his wand, paused. Dream-knowledge came in floods and bursts, overwhelming comprehension where there had been none before.

"He sells their dead to the Drethazi. That's why they killed his family," Percy told Jeanne. "Would a warrior race appreciate their warriors being devoured by people too weak to fight for their own meal?"

Jeanne cursed and flew through the water, her feathers grey as she darted past sharks, and blood, and silver weapons that burned bright. She flew past it all, and burst out of the depths like a second sun, and blinded them all in an instant.

 

* * *

 

"They're all barbarians," Tom said with disgust. There was no one else around, no battle and no blood. Tom sat on the Frog King's throne, stroking the razed red hair on Percy's head. Percy let his head fall against Tom's knee. Everything spun when the Dreamworld behaved like it was now. It was no good to have a quick-paced action scene in a dream-- he lost bits and pieces off the ends, and didn't understand what he was left remembering.

"What's going on?" he asked Tom's knee. "Where did everyone go?"

Tom sighed; Percy could feel it swell against his forehead. "The dream is shifting a bit. You understood the implications of Iron Henry being willing to sell his own people as food. Fish don't care the same way that the octopus-people do, if they're eaten. They view their body as returning to the ocean. But a warrior hones their body, considers it sacred. To have it desecrated…."

"There was a battle," Percy said, as Tom's fingers helped a strand of hair loop around the back of Percy's ear. "Jeanne burst out of the water and was so bright-- the oceans have never seen such brightness, so everything stopped. Did I stop?"

"Just for a moment," Tom soothed. "When there's a crack, when you have breathing room-- that's when I can come see you."

"Because you're not real. You're a figment."

Percy could hear the smile in Tom's voice, though it was oddly choked. "No. Because I _am_."

"Am what?"

But Percy was suddenly back in a full throne room, standing before Henry's throne rather than seated. The king was there, looking down gravely at an angry octopus-man chieftain, who held a staff that was more abomination than magical implement. Octopus-people, fish, and frogs were everywhere, every head turned up to face the scene they were about to see.

"Break the stone, and release my family's souls!" the Frog King barked, hopping once or twice in his anger. Jeanne was impassive, impenetrable as she stared down from a nest on one of the jutting rocks overhead.

Percy was tired of being tested. He wanted to wake up.

"I am not releasing a single soul while you still try to take over my waters. You butcher my people and sell them for humans to eat, fried and dipped in sauce as if we are a delicacy." The chieftain's voice was smoldering, gravel and alcohol and all the dark thoughts that Percy ever had in the middle of the night. It made him turn red just to hear it. "We are not a delicacy. We only obey the strong, and you are not strong. The people you give our flesh to are not strong."

Was anyone in the Dreamworld ever decent? Sentient animals were eaten by humans; half-blood wizards hunted kind, if ugly, creatures for fun; even a phoenix could allow you to be tortured. Nothing was ever clear, either. Even the violation of soul magic could be because your people were being eaten and not because you were cruel to begin with. Even the person you thought you were in love with could be nothing more than a shadow.

Percy didn't want everything to be grey. Even if nothing was clear, even if everything was complex and cloudy and strange, people still deserved the hope that light could bring to the world. Light wasn't the truth of the way things were, like he had once thought, but he would fight to make it a reality if he had to.

If only he wasn't so tired.

"Break the pearl, please, Master Weasley," the Frog King pleaded. His eyes were solemn with the intensity of his feelings. "My family deserves to go to their deaths in peace."

"So do mine!" the chieftain roared. His dark tentacles lashed out instinctively, almost hitting the base of Henry's throne. His face, twisted in rage, looked almost familiar. Percy was almost sure he had seen his face or one like it before.

"Am I to be your arbiter?" Percy dragged out. He felt half-asleep, a curious circumstance given that he was already in a dream. "Because you won't like my solution."

"I trust Lady Phoenix, and her emissary," Henry said with a nod.

"The Lady Phoenix has been kind in the past," the chieftain agreed. They both turned their eyes to Percy, the Frog King's dark and the chieftain's flint grey.

Percy sighed. He remembered a fairy story his mother had told him, about how lost witches who wanted to go home grew houses with chicken legs so that they could never be lost again. Their house would always come find them. Percy wished he had one of those houses now.

"I have no idea how I've reached the point of judging wars for aquatic creatures." Percy frowned at them sternly. "Your war is your war. You know more about your battles and your background than I do." He touched the hilt of the sword he had worn since this journey's start; the gold blade began to glow, illuminating the dim cavern and drawing the octopus-chieftain's appreciative eye. "I can't help you with that. What I can help you with are rules." Percy had always been a firm believer in rules. "You keep escalating, doing things that are horrible to each other, because you don't have rules. You both agree that your people deserve to be treated decently in death?"

The chieftain and the king nodded.

"So you should agree to respect that your opponent has a different idea about what 'decently' might be." Percy thought back to Gideon and Fabian Prewett, being pulled into pieces by horses. "What else do you each think is too horrible a thing for your opponent to ever do, or that you would like to have happen during or after battle?"

In the end, a slender, reddish frog was playing scribe, and the document ended up named "Queen Valencia's Proclamation for Decency in War" after the late queen. Percy sat in the muck, covered in blood and dirty pond water as he invented a rulebook for warfare between freshwater and saltwater creatures in a world of dreams.

Percy shattered the pearl with the hilt of his gold sword, which allowed itself to be drawn easily and glowed warmly in his hand after and Henry had agreed to return octopus-people's bodies back to their homes. Before leaving, the chieftain had placed his hand on Percy's shoulder, his tentacle curling over Percy's thigh and his grin wide. The kiss he placed on Percy's forehead was blazingly hot before he slipped into the water and headed back to Mars.

Henry looked at him placidly, unaware of how strange this entire episode had been. "Let's get you to the Drethazi, and thank you, Dreamer," he said.

With a self-satisfied expression, Jeanne led the way out of the waters and into the foothills of the Drethazi Mountains.

 

* * *

 

Jeanne and Percy cut off quite a bit of their travel time from the Forest of Trees by going through the kingdom of Canor. They emerged from a lovely pond, with the Frog King waving at them merrily before hopping back into the water to discuss battle plans with his lieutenants. Percy decided that there was no reason to bother with confusion at the sudden shifts in location at this point, and simply settled in for what would be the final leg of his quest.

The Drethazi Mountains rose out of the forest gradually, starting with a slight elevation that turned into rolling hills that grew larger and larger. The air was warm enough in the lower elevations, but as Percy and Jeanne made their ascent, the air slowly began to grow colder.

"We're not exactly equipped to be trekking in the mountains, are we?" Percy asked through chattering teeth. He was still soaked from their adventure in Canor and Mars. "This part of our journey won't involve being kidnapped and roasted on a stake, or negotiating treaties between fish and octopi, will it?"

Jeanne blinked at him blue eyes innocent. "Don't be ridiculous, Percy," she scolded. "I would never purposefully put you in danger."

"Liar," Percy said. He was feeling oddly cheerful now that they were out of the cavern-castle of the Frog King and away from any mentions of soul magic, octopus-people, and dead families. The mountain air was even somewhat invigorating at the moment, though he suspected he would shortly lose feeling in his fingertips. He shot her a fond look as he drew his cloak closer in around him, jostling the sword at his belt. He thumbed the hilt of the sword in and out of the sheath. It moved easily, nary a protest or an unhappy sticking sensation. It must have decided he was worthy… for now.

Jeanne took off a bit higher into the sky, her laughter shaking the stones lose from the banks of one of the ledges nearby. "You're as warm as you want to be here," came her voice from above.

Percy frowned up at her, blinking away the glare reflected off her feathers. Warm as you want to be? It wasn't as if he had thought to purchase a winter cloak, lined with furs, or dragonhide gloves that would warm his hands as if from the fires of the beast itself. Buying better _subfusc_ would have been smart as well, leather and furs like one of the old druids before the coming of Arthur. They had honored each sacrifice with a prayer for every lost soul, on their knees in the dirt.

Percy knew the exact store he would have gone to in Plarr if he had thought of it. Madame Respara had a clothing shop on Clarita Avenue in the uptown district. She sold clothes made of stardust to women with bird masks, bracelets that made the wearer invisible, and boots that gave poise to whoever wore them. If she had made his cloak, it would keep him warm, never wear out… was he sure that she had never gone there before going on this quest? _(He could remember the way she looked at him over the glasses she perched on the beak of her raven mask, telling him that there was no point in going on a quest-- Dreamers always woke before they could complete their journeys.)_

Percy was warm when he emerged from this daydream, clothed in a sensible cloak and _subfusc_ that kept away the wind and damp. "I am tired of sleeping," Percy told the phoenix flying overhead, "but occasionally, dreams are useful things."

"Dreams are more than just occasionally useful, Dreamer," Jeanne said.

 

* * *

 

They wandered for what felt like days, but it could have been months and years or mere hours and seconds. Percy and Jeanne huddled in the darkness, Jeanne the only warm thing in the blustering gales. Sometimes snow would lash up in the wind and blind Percy, and after days of walking surrounded by bright white ice, Percy could sometimes hardly see.

In this time, he thought of home, and of Christmas. His mother would be knitting like mad as she stared over the front lawn. They kept chickens, fussy creatures that would be pecking the ground between the clutter that Percy's father kept, Muggle creations that he enjoyed taking apart and changing on a whim, like the radio that Percy had listened to ever since he was younger. Radios were one of the Muggle inventions that wizards had accepted wholeheartedly, though many still preferred the Sing-spinners and the layering of magic that could be applied to the music when they were used.

Percy liked to think that Molly was crying for him. If she was crying, she was missing him. Percy sometimes wondered if he was lost in the sea of Molly's children, just one more that she had to worry over and care about. Her children could be one more obligation, another thing to manage in a life that was already stretched too thin.

He missed her, though. He missed her and Ginny, and perhaps his father, even though they never understood each other. He missed Bill and Charlie. He couldn't bring himself to miss the twins or Ron, even though he felt like he should.

He remembered once when he was younger, napping beside Bill while Bill read a comic. He had been hugging his stuffed pig close and Bill had been stroking Percy like a cat. Bill had always been oddly possessive about Percy-- Charlie was only two years younger, but Percy was almost six years younger than Bill, and was something of a pet to the oldest Weasley child. In the darkness of the Drethazi, underneath the bluster of the howling winds that slipped through mountain crags and peaks, Percy remembered Bill bandaging Percy's hands, scraped from a fall, slipping his schoolbooks into Percy's hands even though they should have gone to Charlie, telling Percy first about how he was going to move to Egypt to work for Gringotts. No one else might miss Percy-- but Bill would.

Like the flower elf had said in the inner chambers of the Frog King's palace, Percy had to get home. It was time. Some part of him didn't want to go still. He had made a mistake, a horrible mistake, and because of that he was stuck here. Yet if he was here, he didn't have to face that mistake. He was prepared to be brave now, and face the things he didn't want to face.

Upon this realization, they found the dark-elf village, because such was the logic of dreams.

The songs of dark-elves are deep songs, the songs of outcasts and rebels who have made their own homes. They are still elves, so they sing nevertheless in low, clear voices that could call birds from the sky and fish from the sea, even in the World of Waking, where neither had the ability to speak or think for themselves.

 

_"Far o'er the mountains grey and cold,_

_down in the darken'd deeps._

_We can ne'er go home, we can ne'er go sleep,"_

 

were the first words that Percy heard from a dark-elf mouth.

 

_"The sea says we must go, but we can't find the way._

_We're lost in the darkness, in the mountains we stay._

_We can ne'er go home,_

_we can ne'er go home."_

 

"Poor lovelies," Jeanne said with a sigh, looking into the snow-covered trees. They were beginning to grow sparser.

"Are those… the elves?" Percy had heard the elves mentioned a few times, but still wasn't sure that he believed he was going to get to see something other than a house-elf. He still had the image in his mind of a short little elf with dark grey skin and floppy ears, begging his pardon, even though he knew the High Elves had been nothing like that.

"Yes." She threw back her head and let the harmony to the dark-elf's song burst out of her throat, entwining around the sad words with the same force as a set of pan-pipes calling the rats to tea. The singing dark-elf emerged from the trees, letting his final verse drift over the mountainside.

 

_"We can ne'er go home,_

_so in dreams we must hide._

_Sing a sweet song; bide all our time._

_Someday we'll go home,_

_Someday we'll go home."_

 

The dark-elf finished with an elaborate bow. He had an almost unsightly beauty, his dark hair held back from his high forehead in braids that connected back and forth to one another. Beads were strung through the black strands, little pieces of silver and amethyst that set off his red-violet eyes. "Mistress Phoenix, always a pleasure," he said. English wasn't his first language; his words lilted oddly, the accent like a strange mix between an Irish accent and a Lancashire one. He was lanky, taller than even Percy, with long fingers and an unstrung bow on his back, a throwing axe on his hip.

"Master Calendriel. We're off to the Door." She landed on the elf, Calendriel's, shoulder, nuzzling his hair in greeting. "Percy, allow me to introduce Calendriel Iron-Tongue. Calendriel, this is Percy Ignatius Weasley."

"I prefer Percival," Calendriel said musingly. His gaze on Percy felt oddly heavy. "Like the knight."

Jeanne trilled. "Hush," she said, nuzzling him once more so that her orange feathers stood out against his stark black hair and grey skin.

"A pleasure," Percy offered, dazed. He was still somewhat star-struck by the appearance of the elf, and wanted to ask about the epithet of "Iron-Tongue" but had learned by now not to risk asking any of the denizens of the Dreamworld for more information.

The elf smiled. His teeth were all sharp. "For me as well, Sir Percy," he said. He looked back at Jeanne again. "But you'll stay for revels, even if you can't sleep? None of us are sleeping here anyway, what with the incubus."

"Incubus?" asked Percy.

"Yes. The incubi are a major problem in the Dreamworld, like pests. We have an infestation of a particularly stubborn one, though of late it seems like his heart isn't in it. Depending on the type of incubus or succubus, their goal might be mischief-- impregnating sleeping mortals-- or it might just be gathering energy to power their magic, which they accumulate through intercourse."  
Percy knew that questions were a bad idea, because he had asked and now he was blushing.

"How do they… convince them?" he asked. If he was already blushing, he may as well learn something about the subject. Incubi and succubi were demons and dream-creatures, that he knew from stories.

Calendriel grinned wickedly. He had started to guide them through the trees, and Percy was beginning to see the opening to a series of caves. These weren't the rough caves of goblins or dwarves, but elaborate things with rocks carved into lace and vast struts that held up shimmering walls of fragile stone. "Sex can be its own motivator, Sir Percy. But sometimes, an incubus or succubus will appear as someone the dreamer already knows, and convince them that way." Facing the vast, green door that led from the cold air and into the dark-elves' home, he sang the next word: "Open." The doors parted.

When the elves missed the ships to Elphyne, they still had no desire to remain on the mortal realm anymore, so they fled to dreams. The Dreamworld was vast, but its political systems and machinations had little room for the complicated lives of the dark-elves. So the elves went to the mountains and inhabited them, as they had learned from goblins. Where goblins used clever machines, and dwarves simply asked the stone to move itself, elves sung their spells and made stone walls as thin as glass. Every connecting cave was a palace in its own right, and the walls were shimmering, gossamer things that were more beautiful than words could say.

Inside the caves, Calendriel led them through a marketplace that was lit by stones filled with sunlight.

"This is the Silah Market," he explained, dodging an unsteady tower of peaches that were piled high on a cart. "One of the best markets in the Drethazi. Mistress Phoenix knows, but since you do not, Percy Ignatius Weasley, I'll explain." He pointed overhead, where a black banner fluttered as the elves shot spells back and forth. There was magic everywhere. Everyone used magic that they conducted by their hands and word alone. They could stop a glass from breaking with a sharply sung "no," or heal a cut with nothing more than a sweet lullaby and a kiss.

"That's the banner of our Lord Arephil," he said. "He is the lord here in the Drethazi mountains, and has been for at least a millennium. He is a kind lord. Of course, I am required to say that, since he's my father."

The doors leading off the cave walls that surrounded the marketplace must have led into private residences. More tunnels led away from the market, the Drethazi's version of streets, avenues, and alleys. The doors had front stoops with pots of stubborn reddish flowers, and on some of them, ghostly creatures made of light, shadow, and motes of dust played games with small elf children. The children were so charming, smiles and laughter and delight, that it made Percy want to bring one home with him.

"Is that how you met Jeanne?" he asked, watching a dark-elf girl stroke the back of an orange tabby cat.

Calendriel's smile was bright, despite the sharp teeth. "It is. She is something of a dignitary here in the Dreamworld, the Grand Phoenix of Morning. She has been here longer than many of us."

"Since the Light Lady's death," Jeanne agreed. She looked content, watching as one of the children began to sing a nonsense song to a beetle. They were past the throng of the market now, off one of the branching tunnels that had the name _Avir Street_ etched in the stone wall.

That's when Percy realised. "You're the phoenix you mentioned, when you spoke of the Dark Lord, the Light Lady, and the Grey Lord. You flew by her side in battle." He looked down at the sword at his hip, frowning. "Is this even her longsword?"

"I assumed you had picked up on that by now," said the phoenix, laughter in her voice. "And of course it's her sword. How else would you be able to lift it, untrained swordsman that you are, if it wasn't forged for a lady?"

Percy barely flinched at the insult. This was something that he should just accept, he realised. It was a dream, and in dreams truth was tangible: the Pig-Men had a failing democracy, the markets of Plarr were full of thieves, Mars was the ultimate ruler of the Dreamworld, and Jeanne was a phoenix that could make herself appear to be whatever she wished to be, and a being whom was set on Percy going on a quest to change who he was. But how could he have casually met the same phoenix who had flown for the Light Lady?

"Why are you wasting time with me, then?" Percy asked. "Why do I have her sword?"

Jeanne said nothing, but radiated amusement.

Ignoring this byplay, Calendriel opened one of the doors that led into the mountain and gestured them through.

"Father, I'm home!" he called.

The cave that they entered was a large one. Stone platforms of varying levels provided a jump-off point for crystal that had been treated like iron-work, curving around every edge in the cave like a particularly delicate molding. The crystals reflected light, shining softly in a range of pinks, lavenders, and yellows. Deeper into the cave, past messy stacks of books and strings of drying herbs, there was a flicker of firelight. As they approached, Percy saw first the drape of pearls that graced the top of the mantle, beneath which a fire roared and crackled in the grate. There were heavy armchairs in front of the fireplace, upholstered in red brocade, and to the right was a gentle sloping hallway that led into what looked like a dining area. There were more books and scrolls everywhere.

In one of the chairs sat a dark-elf, tall and skeletally-thin, in a golden robe. A violet cloak hung loose around his shoulders. He gently placed the book he was reading down in his lap as they approached. "Calendriel," he said with obvious pleasure. "And Milady Phoenix. What a delight. Who is your young friend?"

Percy met the dark-elf's purple eyes and bowed low. "Percy Ignatius Weasley, Lord Arephil. I've been traveling with Jeanne."

"I agreed to take him to the Door to Waking, if he proved capable of the journey." When Arephil gestured to the fireplace, Jeanne flew down to rest there. "Thank you, my lord," she acknowledged. "It's a pleasure to be in your realm once more."

Arephil smiled, and his whole face went soft, hazy around the edges. It was as if Percy's mind was trying to protect him against a terrifying, incomprehensible beauty, gibbering at him in his subconscious about how the stories always spoke of the beauty of elves. "Oh Jeanne, I have missed you," Arephil was saying. "How is your Den of Ill Repute? I suspect you're still pretending to be a trollish den-mother?"

"How else would I weed out the righteous travelers from the foolish?"

"It's been hundreds of years since you agreed to guide one here, and decades since you let someone try to wield your sword," Arephil said. "This one must be something special, to have gotten all the way here, and still have the sword at his hip besides."

Jeanne turned a beady eye to Percy. "He's all right," she allowed, but the fondness in her tone made Percy flush.

"I could let you catch up in private, if you don't mind me exploring?" Percy offered. "Either the house or, if it's safe, Silah Market?"

"Everywhere in my realm is safe to you," Arephil said. His eyes shone like a cat's, making Percy shiver. "And you're right. We should discuss the incubus problem, Lady Phoenix, since I'm certain you have some insight. Calendriel, you will go--"

"I would like to be alone, I think," Percy interrupted. "My apologies, but I haven't been alone very often since this journey began."

"Of course." Arephil's voice was soothing. "Calendriel, Jeanne, and I have much to discuss besides."

Percy bowed again and left the cave, making sure to take note of how to return back as he found his way back to the Silah Market once more. There some lovely open storefronts, built into the walls with wide stone countertops where the customers could sit and chat with the store owners. A pair of lovers sat at one of these, sharing a cup of a steaming hot beverage back and forth. Their hands were so entangled it was hard to tell whose hand was whose; half of the things they said to each other were song, snatches of singsong tune and crooning sweet nothings.

"Disgusting," Tom said, scowling. He drew Percy to his side and turned them down one of the tunnels, away from Silah. "I hate dark-elves. Ridiculous creatures."

"How could you have anything to do with dark-elves, if they've only lived in dreams for millennia?"

Tom blinked, then pressed his lips to Percy's temple swiftly. "Clever boy, I don't have to _know_ them to know them."

"Hm." Percy had believed the same of Tom. He had believed that he didn't have to know Tom to know him, and it had wrecked Percy. He hated what he had done. He hated that he had gotten trapped like any of the foolish dreamers who had been caught in a nightmare as they ran through the streets of Plarr. This figment, though, this shadow of Tom, was nothing like the creature that had locked him in the Dreamworld and taken him as fuel for a ritual.

Percy reached up to cover Tom's hand with his, drawing the other boy down to kiss him. They had to stop for a moment, then, Tom's heat radiating into Percy as he held him to the wall. Percy wrapped his arms around the other boy's neck, pressing himself closer as Tom bit at Percy's lip, stopping his breath in his chest. He kissed Percy long and slow, easily making Percy just _stop thinking_ for the first time since he had been born and just follow someone else's lead. He tasted so good.

Like ink.

Percy broke away, shaking off the memory. The Tom he had dreamed up was nothing like the Tom from the diary-- he was more stubborn, more open, and more than Percy could have ever hoped. Remembering ink, remembering the diary-- why bother?

Tilting his head up, Percy brushed one more kiss against Tom's lips, tasting him briefly: salt and honey, not ink.

"Where are we going?" he asked, tugging Tom until they were walking again.

Tom's eyes were immeasurably, unbearably sad. "Away from the crowds. I just want to spend time. You're leaving soon, after all."

 

* * *

 

That night was the revels, since dark-elves were like High Elves in that they loved a good party. It was a blur of dance and song and drink. Jeanne sang too, a lovely counterpoint to the husky voices of the dark-elves. In the caves of the Drethazi, night was much the same as day. Percy couldn't keep track of either, but the elves could. Their party ended in due time, people trundling themselves off to their homes with cheery lullabies and fond farewells.

Lord Arephil began to muster a number of guards to send with Jeanne and Percy, as befitted Jeanne's status as the Grand Phoenix of Morning. Not being well-versed in wizarding titles, much less phoenix ones, Percy took Jeanne at her word that Calendriel and the six guards, with their armored leathers and grim expressions, were an honor.

"So we can't just Apparate there, then?" Percy asked. He realised somewhat foolishly that this was a question he should have asked at the beginning of the quest rather than now, but seeing the elves use magic constantly was jump-starting Percy's brain, which was far too used to only being able to use magic at school.

Jeanne gave him a buff from her wings. "The journey is more important than the end or the start," she said. "It is a dream, after all. You can't simply Apparate, unless the place you're Apparating to doesn't matter."

"This is a very safe area, because of the dark-elves," Jeanne explained, "but there is still a chance we might encounter snow trolls or ice wraiths. It is better to be safe than sorry."

The guards were finally ready, and Arephil was bowing before a dignified-looking Jeanne. Then they were off. They set out through the long tunnels that branched away from the Silah Market, walking through past more shops and houses until they finally exited from the inner mountain to the outer somewhere near the peak.

The cold air was almost shocking, despite Percy's warm clothes. His robe billowed around him as they moved toward the Door at the horizon. It stood, solid and heavy, a door that led to nowhere. As they approached it, Percy could see that there was a frame around it, carved with the images of animals all intertwined together: cats, rabbits, wolves, and bears were some of the few that Percy could pick out. It was polished with the dark, burnished red of oxblood.

"What do you see?" Calendriel asked. His long, dark hair was covered by a white hood. In the sunlight, he looked almost ghoulish.

"Can't you see it?"

Calendriel shook his head. "The Door is individual to every dreamer. Everyone's Door looks different, and things that happen to the Door affect you in the waking world. Things that happen in the waking world affect the Door as well. The dark-elves are not dreamers, but permanent residents. We have our own portals, if we ever cared to use them, but nothing like this."

"It looks like one of the doors at Hogwarts," Percy said, still staring as they drew closer. "Heavy, ornate." He didn't mention the several locks on it, which seemed closed tight. He didn't want to admit what that might mean.

When they finally stood before the Door, Percy could hardly believe it. He wasn't sure how long it had been, since everything was so strange here, but it felt like it had been too long. He had done so many things since this journey had begun that it was hardly comprehensible. He almost couldn't remember his months of living in Plarr, the week he had spent burning on the pyre, the sight of the jolly hunters out for blood, the strange crystalline streets of the Drethazi, the war on Mars. All that was left was the Door.

"I thought I would never be able to get you here," Jeanne said, almost idly. She flew over to perch on the doorframe, cocking her head at him. "Sometimes you seemed determined to go in the opposite direction."

"I always wanted to go home," Percy snapped. His lips tightened with irritation as he glared up at her. "That was never in question." The words felt hollow, though.

She fluffed her feathers out. "Did you? Do you? What's there for you at home?"

Percy looked away, catching sight of Calendriel's carefully turned-away face. "Not much," he admitted. "I don't endear myself to people. I am stubborn, and prejudiced, and rude."

With gleaming eyes, she stared at him. "But you've changed."

"Can you really change from a dream?" Percy shook his head. "You're being cruel again. You've been cruel enough for this trip. I don't need it again."

"Fine, then," she said, settling her feathers. "Open the Door."

"That simple? Just open the door?" Ignoring the guards, he took a step closer to it, laying a hand on its frame. It was warmer next to it, flowers curling up from beneath the grass that was hidden under its bulk.

"If you can," she said. He couldn't read the look on her face then, so he just shrugged. He clasped one hand around the cool metal of the handle, and pulled. Then he pulled again.

"It's locked." He traced the outline of one of the locks with his fingertip. They were welded shut, angry and burned.

Jeanne bowed her head. "I was worried about that. We can stay with the Drethazi, then. You will like them-- they are more your type of people than those of Plarr, and you'll learn much--"

"--No." Percy set his chin, staring at the Door. "I've come far enough through this ridiculous place. Someone must have a key. I'll wait."

"You're just going to wait. By the Door." Calendriel stared. "There are monsters. Wraiths and demons, claws that rise from the ground."

"If I stay close enough to the Door, there's some protection here, isn't there?" Percy could feel the wards against his skin, a strange, tingling hum. "I can wait."

"This is foolish, Dreamer."

"What isn't foolish, here?"

 

* * *

 

Percy waited by the Door for a thousand and one days and nights before anything changed. Jeanne stayed with the dark-elves since she couldn't handle the cold very well, and they all came to visit Percy and the Door as often as they could. Calendriel and Percy became great friends. Calendriel's guard, Kaen, who had been with the group that had brought them to the Door, taught Percy how to properly use the longsword that had once belonged to the Light Lady. They drilled for long hours, lunges and blocks and parries.

"The Door is locked because you need to face something still," Jeanne said grumpily one day, early on. She was all puffed feathers, her neck short as she tried to hide away into the mass of down. The top of the Door was beginning to be scarred beneath her talons. "If you would proceed to face it, we could leave. What could possibly be left? We've confronted everything there is to confront. I approve of you now, even."

"Lovely." Percy rolled his eyes. "I can't help you, Jeanne. I don't know.

Every visit had its end, though. The dark-elves and Jeanne had other things to attend to, and all there was left at the end of the day was Percy and the Door.

"You're in a coma, you know," Tom said, since of course there was Tom, too. He came, sometimes more often than the dark-elves and Jeanne. He would play chess with Percy or read him books, tell him stories from all the places Percy hadn't gone yet in the Dreamworld: Layth, Denore, Halliad. He would bring Percy dinner and try to feed it to him bit by bit, or sleep against Percy's shoulder. Now, though, he was sitting, leaning against the Door with his shoulders slumped. He still had that expression on his face that he'd worn for over a thousand days, like his heart was breaking and he knew it.

"I know," Percy replied. Tom began to look more defeated. "It's why the Door won't open."

Percy loved working on problems and finding solutions. He was aware enough to know it was because he liked the praise that resulted from success. Trying to solve a puzzle in a dream, however, was next to impossible. Tom was a particular oddity that might have been easier to understand if Percy had been awake. It was too hard to focus here, though, and everything went strange if he tried to think logically. He wasn't a fool, regardless.

"Are you the incubus?" Percy asked. "The one the dark-elves spoke of, the reason that they only sleep if they have an armed-guard?"

Tom gave him a half-smile that curled up over the edges of his lips, making his face charming and sweet. His blue eyes-- and they shouldn't have been blue, should they, they should have been red-- were wistful.

"Yes. I was based out of the Drethazi mountains for a while. The elves have to sing _heart-songs_ to each other before they have sex. They're repressed. It's easy to get them to succumb to an incubus. But they were dull, so I went to Plarr."

"And you found me." It wasn't so much painful, this realisation, as it was something Percy had known all along, but had been trying to pretend he didn't know. "Why do you look like Tom?"

"Because he was what you wanted most." The incubus smiled, and Percy desperately wanted to reach out and make him smile a real smile, not that sad, twisted thing.

"I'm not gay," he said instead.

That made Tom laugh. "We're a little beyond that, aren't we?"

"I'm allowed to be nonsensical. I'm a dreamer," Percy retorted. He was turning pink as he said, "You may be right, though."

"You're lovely, you know. You're all rules, confidence, and sharp tongue, but you once you give in--"

"I haven't given in to anything," Percy said crossly.

Tom heaved a sigh. Snow fell from the top of his dark curls to rest on his eyelashes, sparkling beneath the light of the moon. "You will when I tell you what I'm about to tell you. But I don't want you to go."

Percy's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Tom reached out and Percy reached back reflexively, linking their hands together. Tom's skin was paler than Percy's freckled forearm, his skin smoother where Percy's was marred by ink. "Do you remember what the den-mother, Jeanne, what she told you when you first entered Plarr?" Tom took a breath, reaching out with his other hand to cradle the fragile bones of Percy's wrist. "She said you could either have a phoenix take you through the door, which hasn't worked yet--"

"--or I could let an incubus take my virginity." Percy was aware his face now matched his hair in color, but couldn't seem to help it.

Tom leaned in, breathing deep into Percy's neck. His exhale made Percy shudder, suddenly hot despite the snow around the Door. "Sex is power," Tom said, his dark tone sending a spiral of lust through Percy's stomach. "The power can open the door, especially the power of virginity lost. There's potential there, and in potential is energy. But this has to be the first time that I've ever wanted to _not_ shag someone."

That stopped Percy cold. He tugged his hand from Tom's. "You don't want me?"

Tom laughed, bitterly. "No, Percy… I do. But I don't want to lose you. If you wake up…."

Percy shook his head. "Having… doing that… with you, it won't open the Door. Jeanne says that I still have something else to face, one more thing that I have to do before I can wake."

"At this point, you're probably right, but there's still the chance." Tom's eyes seemed pained. "In the beginning, the release of power might have been enough. Now, though, you started a quest. Quests don't take kindly to shortcuts or cheats. There's a chance it might still work, though, and… you might have to leave."

"You care?" Their eyes locked, Tom's fingertips still tracing over Percy's wrist.

"More than he ever would have." He shuddered. "Merlin, I can see him, the real Tom Riddle. I can taste him in your memories, feel the shape of him. I know him as well as you, and perhaps even better. A vile creature you fell for, Percy Weasley. He was more demonic than I ever could be."

His tone made it slot into place, notching into position in Percy's mind like an arrow to Calendriel's bow. "You care."

Percy had spent so much of his time denying that he had been infatuated with the Tom of the diary, denying that the dream Tom made his heart race more than anyone had before. He had tried over and over again to make this less than it was, hide his heartbreak and confusion. But Tom cared.

He leaned in. Tom's hand went up to the back of Percy's neck, pulling him down, forcing Percy to rest all of his weight against Tom and the Door. The kiss went on, tangling them together until they were all tied up around one another. They breathed in gasps, air shared between them until they were both light-headed from lack of oxygen.

"You can't take this back, Percy."

"Take what back?" Percy licked Tom's throat, setting his teeth in carefully. He wanted to _eat_ the incubus. He had never wanted to consume another person like this, belong to them like this.

Tom sighed. With his exhale, his hands went to tug off Percy's robe and cloak. His fingers tangled with the laces of Percy's trousers, nails dragging lazily over the bulge. Percy moaned, rubbing sinuously against the hand like a cat.

There was snow everywhere. This was the ground. It should have been uncomfortable and cold, but it wasn't. It was blissful as they tumbled back and Percy couldn't catch even one stuttering breath as Tom's tongue swiped flatly over his stiffened nipples,

"Tom, I don't know if--" He half-pulled back, but Tom followed, drawing Percy's hand to his mouth and kissing it. The heat of the touch made him ache.

"What don't you know?" he asked regardless, hovering over Percy's body with one leg nudged between Percy's. The curve of his knee was rubbing against Percy's cock; Percy was having trouble remembering what his protest had been.

"Anything," Percy sighed, relaxing into Tom's touch.

Tom's laughter rocked his body, making Percy whimper as their bodies moved together. "The first step," he breathed into Percy's lips, "to changing that is admitting that you need help."

"So help me!"

The sensations began to blur, the slide of Tom's body against his and the feeling of his mouth on Percy's skin sending him higher and higher. His fingers pressed into Percy's arse, slick as he stretched Percy wide open and made his head snap back. When he thrust into Percy's body, it was one smooth motion that made Percy's back seize and whimpers come out of his mouth in a stream. He clutched at Tom's shoulders and held as pleasure filled him like a forest fire, like the pyre was burning him once more.

"Tom--"

"That's not my name, you know," the incubus said, panting around the words. Percy curled his legs around Tom's back, biting at his own lips in lieu of Tom's shoulder.

"What is?" he asked, not sure he even made sense.

His world was beginning to shatter, gold light filling his vision. The name was the last thing that he heard before he came apart, held safe in the incubus' arms.

"Merlin, I'm going to miss you." The words were murmured into Percy's hair, taking home in his heart.

In a moment, Tom was gone. Percy stood in front of the Door, fully-clothed, with a hand on his sword. Gold light was spilling out of the doorway as the locks clicked open. They still appeared half-melted, but the Door was unlocked.

"No." He stared, horrified, at the unlocked doorway. Being with Tom shouldn't have opened it. This was a quest in a dream: the next and final thing he needed to face should have been the only thing that would open the Door. The only reason it would have opened was if, somehow, Tom was what he had needed to confront.

It was only unlocked, and didn't look like it would have opened all the way unless Percy put in some effort of his own. A phoenix trill was coming from behind as Jeanne flew down to land on Percy's shoulder with a jolt. "You're ready, then?"

Percy closed his eyes, but all he could see was gold light. "I don't want to go," he finally admitted. "You're right. I know I have to, but I don't want to go." There was adventure here, and so many things to learn. He hated the changeability of it, but he was never bored, and he was never alone. He always had Tom.

He wouldn't have Tom anymore.

After a breath, Percy stepped forward and put his hand on the door. As he moved to open it, the door jerked from his hand, blasting wide open as something from the other side surged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the longest notes in history! Settle in for a moment. I know this is Thursday and not Sunday-- my preferred update day-- but it has been such a process writing this that I wanted to post it as soon as I finished editing.
> 
> Trying to write this in the style of the rest of Common Sense was a bit of a bitch, and the prep work was insane. I-N-S-A-N-E. Apologies for how long this took, but as you can see, it's a bit hefty. I couldn't decide whether to post it in one part or two, either, and then finally decided it should really be one part since it is self-contained. So I sent out a few red herrings about when the posting time would be. :(
> 
> The Frog King is a glass frog. The story about Iron Henry is actually real, though in the Grimm story, he doesn't become a frog himself. The whole thing is a weird tacked-on part of the Princess and the Frog tale, and it's the reason that it's my favorite fairy tale: I ship Iron Henry/Frog Prince hardcore. Screw that selfish princess. Jeanne d'Arc = Joan of Arc, obvs. Kind of like the whole Guy Fawkes = Fawkes thing. Famous burning people, man.
> 
> I sneaked a line from "In the End" in here. I may end up editing it back out, but I've been having a hard time with Chester Bennington's death, to be honest.


	21. [Year Two] Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flamels are displeased with Harry and Percy doesn't quite find awakening to his liking. Homecomings are always difficult, but it's especially hard when you've changed so much and no one else has the slightest inkling.

When the gold glow from the ley lines faded, Harry found himself blinking in the half-light of the moon, staring at the Greaat Lake with a bit of confusion, a half-dozen questions, and no clear answers in sight. Everything looked just a touch realer than it had before, as if it had been brought into hyper-focus. It was like a shadow that had been covering his vision had been lifted, or like he had been wearing his glasses all along, but suddenly realised he did not actually need them after all.

"That… wasn't really very helpful," he said. The words sounded too loud in the darkness of the empty grounds. From his place curled around Harry's forearm, Whisper shivered. Surana had stayed in the Ravenclaw dormitory, saying that if Harry was foolish enough to open the ley lines without a teacher, she might as well get out of the cross-fire. The little Delicana snake, though, had been too sleepy to part from Harry, and his scales were glittering like they were lit from within.

"Awful, awful, awful…" he muttered, his child-like voice an unhappy croon.

"It'll be fine," Harry told Whisper firmly. He gave one last, curious look to the hyper-real surroundings before he started back into the castle, pulling the Invisibility Cloak over them both. The mud around the lake sucked in around his dragon-hide boots, clinging as he trudged forward to drier ground.

He wasn't sure what had happened, exactly. He had connected to the ley lines, and had seen things he didn't quite understand. The strange, black chains around the Ministry were concerning, and… had Percy really woken up? So much seemed to have happened between one moment and the next.

Harry moved his head to watch where he was going, and gold shimmered at the corners of his vision, little darts and flashes. Try as he might, he couldn't make it enter his line of sight properly, no matter how he craned his neck; that would become old very quickly. He would have to check his books to learn the next steps in training the skill. Likely, meditation would be involved, which would be helpful since he was already required to do meditation for his Occlumency shields. He had a working theory that he would be able to use the ley lines to strengthen his mental warding as well, since if the ley lines tied each person together, they could naturally be used to separate people if need be, so it would stand to reason that….

Harry looked up slowly as he saw a pair of solid brown boots tapping impatiently on the floor. He followed the boots up to where they met the sturdy legs, the stolid tunic, and the sharp axe on a leather belt. Perenelle Flamel.

"Did you really think we wouldn't notice?" Perenelle asked, her voice a dangerous rumble.

"Aren't I invisible?" Harry took his cloak off and folded it in his arms, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Or, no, wait--" he babbled. "If you can see ley lines, as your heritage and magical specialty suggests, you can likely see me regardless since every living thing has a link to the lines. That could be useful, even if the glow is frustrating."

Perenelle seemed as if she had a frightful headache. "Harry, why?"

He blinked at her. "The lines seem important, and I reckoned I could do it."

For one shining moment, she was speechless. Then she began getting redder and redder, all of her muscles tensing. Her hand twitched for her axe. Harry took a step back, mouth going dry.

"Harry," she said, voice completely even, "you have lost Ravenclaw house one hundred House points for your utter arrogance, as well as being out of bounds at night. You are also going to come to Nicolas' and my room and we are going to go over, in excruciating detail, why you had this _shale-brained_ , _thin-aired_ , _sun-loving_ idea to open yourself up to the ley lines alone, without a teacher or person to ward you. You have no idea what you could have invited into this world."

"I was very careful in my wording," Harry said, very quietly.

She shot him a look. "You are also not going to say another word unless you're answering a question, because I don't have the patience for this. You just came back from holiday. Why would you immediately--  no. We're going."

She marched him into the castle and through the twisting corridors and moving staircases to the rooms of the professors Flamel. As he walked, silent per her request, Harry considered her protest. He could have waited, and asked her to supervise. She had clearly had the expertise, and likely would have agreed to help if he explained why he wanted to know. It had seemed crucial at the time to learn about the ley lines himself, as soon as he could. There was a prophecy. Harry had tried to shrug it off when Louisa had told him about it, but he knew what a prophecy meant. A prophecy meant that sooner or later, he wasn't going to have a choice anymore: he was going to have to face Voldemort or die in an attempt to face him.

Perenelle opened the door with a bang. Professor Flamel was seated on one of his fur-covered couches, blinking blearily at Harry. He looked none-too-pleased about being awake at this hour, the flickering lamps casting shadows on his craggy face.

"Explain," he snapped out. He pulled one of the furs around him like a blanket and glowered.

Harry looked, briefly, at the number of axes around the rooms, and decided to comply. "I don't know how much I should say." Perenelle, who was moving to take a seat beside her husband, gave him a singularly unimpressed look. "That is to say… never mind." He took a breath. Ignoring that the Headmaster clearly trusted the Flamels due to his long-held friendship with them, Harry trusted them. They had been nothing but kind to him, after all. "I met the Dark Lord over the Yule holiday."

Professor Flamel fell off the couch. Harry watched, bemused, as the dwarf picked himself up, grumbling and slapping at his clothes with a flush high on his cheeks. "Carry on," Flamel grunted, levering himself onto the couch again.

"Um." Harry coughed. "I assumed the Headmaster had told you that the Dark Lord was… around again."

"He did," Perenelle said drily, "but with his name all over the papers, it's been clear regardless."

"You know that he's Tom Riddle?" Harry stared at her in shock. "Why isn't he _doing_ something? Mr. Riddle is gathering power, he's the _assistant to the Minister_. I don't--"

"What do you expect Albus to do, Harry?" Flamel scoffed. "You-Know-Who is very powerful, and although he is not very fond of Albus, he has a number of followers and besides--"

Harry was starting to get a hollow feeling in his chest. No one was _doing_ anything. Louisa hadn't known that Riddle and Voldemort were the same person, but if it was open knowledge among Headmaster Dumbledore and his friends…. But how much sway did the headmaster of Hogwarts really have? More importantly, how much sway did the man who had defeated Gellert Grindelwald have? Shouldn't it have been a lot? Grindelwald was the last Dark Lord; it seemed that Dumbledore should be able to defeat a second Dark Lord without a problem if that was what he wanted to do.

"It's because of the prophecy, isn't it?" he asked, cutting through Flamel's diatribe.

Perenelle inhaled sharply. "You know the prophecy?"

"Not the wording. I just know what everyone thinks it means." Harry ducked his head, letting his hair sway across his vision. He stroked over Whisper's back with one finger. "Is that why he hasn't tried to stop this?"

The Flamels exchanged a look. "Harry… I'm sure he has his reasons," Perenelle tried.

"That means you don't know what those reasons are, or that you won't tell me since I'm twelve," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Don't prevaricate." He took a breath. "I don't want you to lie to me. Tell me if you don't want to say the truth or don't know it, please."

Slowly, Professor Flamel nodded. "All right," he said. "Some of it we know, and some of it we don't know. He couldn't have predicted the first war, but I suspect that he is waiting because of the prophecy this time. We currently have no proof that Tom Riddle and Voldemort are one and the same, so our hands are tied."

"Stupid," Harry said sullenly. He shook his head. "I met Mr. Riddle at the Malfoys' Yule party. We discussed ley lines. If you know that he's Voldemort, did you read his articles on the subject? It was interesting."

"His reasoning in the articles is sound, but dependent on fairy tales." Professor Flamel shook his head. "Even living as long as we have, Harry, we have no solid proof about how the Three Lords tie to magic."

"I think it's not worth the 'if' for me to kill him, or whatever it is that people think I should do. Not unless we know for sure. And besides that, someone other than me should be trying to keep him from gaining power until I'm older. This just doesn't make sense."

"Pause for a moment." When her husband opened his mouth to protest, Perenelle glared him into submission. "You met Tom Riddle, and you started up a discussion with him about ley lines. How did you know he was also Voldemort?"

Harry touched the scar on his forehead instinctively. "It hurt. I didn't realise why right away, but Blaise did."

"Ah, your friend Mr. Zabini. And remind me again why you decided to connect with the ley lines and risk inviting a host of Dark creatures into this world by accident?"

"I would have done it anyway because it was interesting academically, but I did make a mistake doing it the way I did. I should have asked you to help me. But it was important, so that I can explore the connection and see if Mr. Riddle is telling the truth. No one else seems like they're going to try."

Perenelle sighed. "We can't tell you everything, Harry. People are looking into things that you aren't even aware of, and the ley lines are one of those things. You are right, though." She and Flamel shared a brief, meaningful look. "You might be the one best-equipped to work on this right now." At Harry's brightening face, she glared. "With due supervision, open discussion, and yes, another night a week of lessons. Congratulations."

Harry liked lessons, so he didn't mind in the least. Besides, if Percy was actually awake…. "Thank you, Professor Flamel," he said, grinning.

"Don't be so happy," the other Flamel grumbled. "You also have detention."

"So many detentions," Perenelle added.

Unlike before, Harry was actually at peace with that. "Thank you," he said again.

 

* * *

 

When he finally made his way to the Ravenclaw dormitory, explained everything to a disapproving Surana, and fell into bed, it was if he was only asleep for a few bare moments before someone was banging on the door. Terry fell out of his own bed in a tangle of blankets; Michael produced a knife from somewhere beneath his pillow that was quickly secreted away again; and Anthony just stared at the door in confusion, one finger marking his page in his Transfiguration book since he was already awake. Groaning and whining, Harry's, Surana's, and Whisper's heads poked out of his own mess of blankets.

"Harry, open up!" a girl was saying as she hammered on the door. "Right now!"

Terry glared. "You have too many girlfriends, Harry," he croaked, untangling himself and walking over to throw open the door. Penelope almost fell through. "Clearwater, it's early."

Penelope's bright eyes darted over to Harry. She was smiling, a flush high on her cheeks.

"He's awake?" Harry said.

She nodded quickly. "How did you know? Percy's mum sent me an owl. We've been talking since the summer."

She produced the letter and shoved it at Harry, graceless in her excitement. Molly Weasley's letter was splotched and messy, covered in ink smears and dried tear-marks, but Harry could still make it out:

 

_Penelope--_

_Percy is awake! He woke up very late in the night, around midnight they say. The Healers are running tests, but you've been waiting as long as I have-- come as soon as you can, and bring that poor Harry Potter. You've both been so dedicated in visiting him that I'm sure he would love to see you as soon as he can._

_Molly Weasley_

 

"I have permission for us to go over to St. Mungo's after breakfast," Penelope said, taking the letter back from him.

"This is lovely news and all, really," Terry interrupted. He was wearing his blankets like a toga. "But get out. I want to put on some real clothes and eat breakfast myself."

"I _am_ a prefect, you know." Penelope pursed her lips. "You should really show some respect."

"You have all my respect, Prefect Clearwater, the beautiful, the wise, but I'm only wearing my shorts."

Laughing, she squeezed Harry's shoulder once and practically bounced out of the room.

"Well, that was interesting," Anthony said mildly, closing his book. "Boot, stop sleeping half-naked. None of us wants to see that." Grumbling, Terry started to dig in his trunk for clothes. Anthony turned to look at Harry, mussing his blonde hair back as he frowned up at him. "I guess you aren't on for study group later, so we can make sure we're all caught up after the break?"

"There's a study group?" Harry started digging in his own trunk, reluctantly pushing aside the more casual robes he would have worn in Positano in favor of his school set. He wondered if Blaise was still mad at him.

"Yes, after all the hols." Anthony frowned. "I thought we had mentioned."

Shrugging, Harry set his robes and _subfusc_ on his bed, turning to look at the other boy. Terry, finally clothed, was poking at Michael's cheek insistently, Michael having fallen back asleep with a scowl on his face. "I'm usually with Blaise or the girls, I suppose."

"Yes, Blaise and the girls."

He sounded disapproving. Harry frowned, reaching down to let Surana slither her way up over his shoulders. "I thought you were fine with Slytherins. And what's wrong with the girls, now?"

Anthony sighed, rubbing at the cover of his book broodingly. "You have an awful lot of friends who are girls, Harry."

Harry stared, confused.

"Having friends who are girls isn't the _same_ as having friends who are boys. And you and Blaise are so close that half the time it's impossible to spend time with you, because you're always off with him, Malfoy, and those other two."

Did Anthony… actually want to spend time with Harry? Harry had always thought that his male Ravenclaw year-mates tolerated him well-enough, but were only casually friendly with him even though they were close to each other. Had they wanted to be real friends, and Harry had missed it?

"You know," he said slowly, "if I thought Blaise, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle would be welcome, we could all study together. That's mostly what we do anyway. You know that Draco is one of the top five students in our year."

"I suppose."

Anthony still didn't look entirely happy, but Harry didn't have the time to worry about it. Whatever had kept Harry staring at the other boy and feeling sick seemed to have disappeared without his noticing, which made it oddly easier to talk to him but also easier to ignore him. "I should get back in enough time to do something this afternoon," Harry suggested, starting to change into his clothes. He noticed when he turned around that Anthony was still looking at him, though he looked away quickly with a red face when he saw Harry's glance. "I'll talk to Blaise."

"O-okay. And I'll talk to Terry and Michael."

Harry wished people were like books. If only you could just jump to the end if the suspense got to be too much, or were provided with a helpful summary that would explain someone's actions. It would make life much easier.

"I'll see you at breakfast," Harry said, instead of shaking Anthony until he told Harry what his blushes, frowns, and sad looks were all about. Anthony probably wouldn't have appreciated that anyway.

 

* * *

 

 Penelope and Harry left as soon as they both managed to shovel down as much bacon and eggs as they could and run over to the infirmary to get to the Floo. Penelope had been entirely unlike herself, chattering not only to Harry, but to all of her friends in her own year about Percy. Harry had barely managed to extricate himself long enough to tell Blaise what was happening.

"He woke up? You saw him wake up?" Blaise repeated, words so close to a hiss that Surana kept giving him curious looks.

"You opened a connection to the ley lines _alone_?" Draco's mouth was open in shock. "Professor Flamel won't let me even connect to them supervised, and I've been studying with her for most the year."

Harry probably shouldn't have said anything with Draco close enough to hear, but he was becoming weary of the whole "keeping things from Draco" problem, as well as wondering whether he could trust one of his own close friends. Draco would tell Voldemort or he wouldn't.

"Yes, yes, and yes," Harry said in an undertone. "We're going as soon as breakfast is over." As he said it, he glanced back over his shoulder at Penelope, who was looking at her watch anxiously. Collectively, almost every ginger in the school was gone, with an exception made for the Gryffindor Seamus Finnegan and one or two others. Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny Weasley were all noticeably absent, creating a distinctly sparse Gryffindor table.

Penelope looked over at Harry and nodded; he stood up. "See you later," he said absently.

"Tell me everything when you get back!" Blaise ordered.

"What do you think he might know, Sssspeaker?" Surana asked as they crossed the Great Hall. As she spoke, there was the low bang of a Christmas cracker and a shower of glitter from the Hufflepuff table; nearby, the Slytherins burst into jeering laughter as one of the sixth-year Hufflepuff boys put on the pale blue bonnet that had appeared from the cracker. Harry and Surana hadn't been alone long enough to have a proper conversation yet today, and he wasn't able to answer her easily in the middle of the Great Hall either. "You should leave me there with him, let me ssssspy."

"Maybe," he said quietly before falling into step with Penelope.

"I can't believe-- I wonder what he'll say. What do you think he knows? Does he know why he fell into a coma? Do you think he remembers me? We barely had a chance to exchange letters before the accident, but it seemed like he liked me. Oh, ignore that I said that. I'm just so pleased." At some point, Penelope had tamed her wheat-gold hair into a braid and seemed to be wearing a Ravenclaw-blue petticoat under her robes, which were even more neatly-pressed than usual.

"I'm sure he likes you," Harry said staunchly, though he hadn't the slightest bit of experience in the matter. He had never seen Penelope behave this much like a _girl_ , but he knew that if someone had visited him every week in the hospital despite only exchanging a few letters and acting as prefects together, he would like that person quite a lot.

She smiled at him again, a bit less manic than before. "Thank you. I guess it doesn't matter, really. I'm just so happy he's awake."

She opened the door to the infirmary and the headed directly to the Floo.

"Give him my best!" Madam Pomfrey said, her normally terrifying voice sounding particularly jolly. The way her eyes sparkled made it seem as if she was almost as pleased as Penelope that Percy was awake. Penelope threw the powder in the fireplace without more than  mumbled acknowledgement and then she was gone.

"Thank you, we will," Harry said for her, and followed the older girl into the flames. Then, at last, they were finally in St. Mungo's.

Harry had never seen St. Mungo's in the morning, when bright light streamed through all the windows and glared off of the white surfaces. The lime green of the Healers' robes caught the sunlight, turning the Healers into beacons as they scurried through the halls of each wing. Other than that, the hospital seemed much the same as it had every other time that Harry had had the pleasure of visiting it. The one difference was the large number of redheads that were spilling out of Percy's room and into the hallway, their thick jumpers and orange hair standing out starkly against the colorless décor of the hospital. They were crowded around Percy's closed door, apparently arguing about who should get to listen with an ear pressed to the wood. For a second, Harry couldn't see past the shoulders of the tall Weasley twins, who seemed at least twice the size they had been at the year's start, but then they moved to talk to one of the other redheads, who must have been their older brother. Harry could then see Percy through the window in the door, leaning back against his pillows and so pale that his freckles stood out like ink on his skin, talking to a wizard with neon pink robes and a long white beard: Dumbledore.

 

* * *

 

 When Percy woke up, he wasn't sure if he was really awake or if it was just another scene change. He lay in the hospital bed he awoke in, limbs tired, body aching, but eyes wide open and wide awake. There was an irritating noise off in the distance, like a buzz from a giant bumblebee, but he was trying to ignore it. He'd had sex. Did it count if it was in a dream? It felt like it should have, because unlike in the dream itself, nothing was slipping away. Everything that had happened, every image, every person, every word, was crystal clear and branded on his memory.

 _Are you just going to lie about all day?_ came a familiar, impatient voice. _You won't have the option soon enough._

Resting on the top of the empty bookcase across the room was the welcome sight of orange, red, and gold plumage: Jeanne. And just as she had said, her voice echoing curiously in his mind, it was only seconds later that the door burst open. The buzzing noise stopped.

"You're awake!" exclaimed the Healer who had come into the room. It was a young woman, probably Bill's age, in the green robes of St. Mungo's Healers. Jeanne shifted and the woman's mouth fell open, eyes drawn to the phoenix's bright feathers. Behind her, another healer shoved past, an older man. Percy met his eyes, then looked out the window in the far wall. It was dark, but the full moon lightened the sky, reminding Percy of facing the Abomination at the phoenix's grove in the Plains of William, Richard and Junior snoring away by the fire.

"Don't tell my mother," Percy said, still facing the moon. His voice cracked, a bit rough from sleep. "She's probably asleep and dreaming."

The Healers gaped. Jeanne cackled, flying down to perch on the bedside lamp. Percy closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

They called his mother and father, since he was apparently still too young to make his own medical decisions. After so long living in dreams, the slight to his maturity was frustrating. He wanted to protest that he had fought wars, been burned alive, and killed two men by shooting them with his sword. Instead, he bit his tongue and waited for his parents to come.

 _This world is so different than it used to be,_ Jeanne remarked. She peered at the Healers as they cast spells at him, mumbling to each other rather than to him the results of their findings. _The people are the same, though._

Percy shot her a look and her laughter rang through the room in response. He couldn't reply to her aloud without appearing insane. _You know they are,_ she said darkly. _Faced with an Abomination, your kinsmen would be just as likely to shoot in reality as in a dream. Faced with an outsider, they would be just as likely to throw them on the pyre._

Percy ignored her, then, because the Healers had paused: Molly Weasley was approaching. Percy could see her through the window in his room door. He felt choked all of a sudden at the sight of her tear-filled eyes and quivering shoulders. She was wearing a thick jumper, the kind she had only ever worn in the winter months.

 _'How much time did I lose?'_ he wondered, wordless, as he saw Molly and Arthur pause outside the room door, talking to one of the Healers in hushed tones. They still wouldn't talk to him about his own health, saving their questions and concerns for his parents.

 _It's January,_ Jeanne told him kindly, her eyes above her beak shining with sorrow. _You missed Christmas and Yule. Hogwarts students just went back for the year last night_.

Percy's brow furrowed. ' _Can you hear my thoughts?'_ he wondered, but then Molly was flinging herself through the doorway, holding him tight in her jumper-covered arms.

"Percy! Oh, Percy-- you're awake! I can't believe-- what happened-- no. No need to talk now. The Healers just need to run some tests and-- We'll make sure you're safe. I--"

"Welcome back, son," Arthur said, looking uncomfortable but sincere next to his effusive wife.

Percy half-expected that when he opened his mouth, doves would burst out, or he would realise that he had made this all up while leaning against the Door to Waking, mind amusing itself in the absence of anything else to do. How could he possibly be awake, after all?

"Mum. Dad," he greeted quietly. He looked at them, wondering how to say it, how to admit the mistake he had made, the mistake that he had been living with for far too long, even if all that living had been done in a dream.

"Is that a phoenix?" Molly asked when she finally drew back, staring at Jeanne, who was still sitting on the lampshade. "Is that why you woke up? Phoenix tears?"

"No… . It's late, but-- in the morning, you should call Dumbledore. I have something I should tell him."

"Dumbledore? Why Dumbledore?"

"Because the reason I fell asleep has to do with a former student of his, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

He watched their faces for any sign of recognition. Voldemort surely wouldn't have been just sitting on his hands and waiting for an opportunity to come to him. Tom certainly wouldn't have. No, if the ritual had succeeded and Voldemort had his own body, the Weasleys had probably heard of him one way or another. Though Percy could still hope that it hadn't worked, somehow, that he hadn't made as a colossal of a mistake as he suspected.

"Riddle? The Minister's assistant?" Arthur asked, sounding utterly flummoxed.

Hope, dashed. "I should wait for Dumbledore," he said. He pretended as if he was tired, lying back on the pillow. Molly began fluffing his pillows and smoothing his bedsheets. Soon, because they were British, there was tea. Percy was not yet allowed to have any, so he watched as the Healers produced tea cups and bags of Master Pennyworth's Dragonroot Tea, sending jets of steaming hot water into the serviceable porcelain cups until they were full to the brim with red liquid that sloshed over the sides. Percy hated tea made from wand-water, so despite being full of longing for anything other than dream-food, not having any wasn't as bad as it could have been. He sat with Jeanne instead, burying a hand in her plumage out of instinct. She shot him a mothering look, curving her neck over her shoulder as Molly fussed with her own tea and her husband's until they were done up to her liking.

Meanwhile, Healers continued with their lightning-flashes of wand light now that everyone was settled in, diagnostic spells filling the air and making them frown and whisper.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Molly asked, plopping herself into a chair and patting Percy's free hand comfortably.

"Fine, Mum," Percy said quietly. The glitter of the lights reminded him of the way spells had lit up the air every time the dark-elves spoke, their songs lighting up the dark night of the festivals. Once, when he waited by the Door, they had moved a celebration to him, singing history-songs long into the night as they celebrated their journey into the Dreamworld long ago.

"So, the phoenix, then?" Arthur asked, cocking his head toward the red bird. Percy looked at him, then at Jeanne.

"Her name is Jeanne," he said slowly. He sounded strange even to himself, as if his voice had been made husky by smoke-inhalation from the fires of the Pig-Men. He had thought that it was just the sleep, and not using it enough. It hadn't changed however much he spoke, though. It didn't make sense, and regardless, trying to strengthen his voice didn't seem to help. Many things didn't seem to make sense, and the fact that his hair was long and not shorn, as it had been in the Dreamworld, confused him every time he caught a glimpse of orange-red hair. "She kept me company."

Molly frowned. "Kept you company? Kept you company where, exactly? In the room? We've never seen hide nor hair of her."

"No, of course not," Percy said, barely managing to restrain himself from the scorn that wanted to lace his words. He hated it when people  misunderstood what he was trying to say. "She kept me company in my dreams."

"Percy…."

"I'm not crazy," he interrupted his father, scowling. "When Dumbledore comes, I'll explain. I'm not doing it twice."

"Percy, don't you speak to your father that way! Even if you have been in a coma, that's no excuse--"

"My apologies," Percy said suddenly, dipping his head. He didn't say anything else, feeling awkward and strange as his parents stared at him. They didn't know, after all. No one knew. How could they?

"Well." Molly took a long slurp of her tea, too loud despite the constant murmur of the healers.

"Well," Percy confirmed. He leaned back against the pillows and, staring up into the white plaster ceiling, thought about Tom, both real and in the dream. He had made a mistake, and he still wasn't quite sure what he was going to say when he had to admit it.

Molly made several more abortive attempts at conversation. Her joy at his awakening seemed to have been stifled by confusion and a little bit of hurt; Arthur seemed much the same, but also with a hint of anger. Percy didn't mind, much. He had never understood his father and his father had never understood him. And yet--

"I want Bill." They were the first words he had spoken in an hour. Molly was huddled off in the hallway with the Healers while Arthur stayed in the room with him, staring at his hands and fidgeting with the items on Percy's bedside table.

"Bill?" Arthur looked flummoxed by the change in conversation.

"If it's too much money, if he can't come--" Percy swallowed hard, flapping a hand at Jeanne to dislodge her. She flew to the other side of the room and settled on the bookcase once more. "I understand, of course. But I'd like him to be here."

"Like who to be here?" Molly walked back into the room. "The Healers have no idea why you woke up, but they think you won't fall back into a coma, so that's something. Are you tired, dear? Do you want to rest some?"

Percy shook his head. He felt as if he would never be able to sleep again.

"Bill," Arthur explained. He looked at the watch on his wrist. "It's five in the morning, Molly. We should call Hogwarts, as well as the boys and let them know that he's woken up."

"Perhaps we should let them sleep a while longer--" Molly shot a concerned look at Percy, who must have turned green at the idea of all of his siblings traipsing into his room all at once, at them having to hear the story he needed to tell.

"I don't want them here."

"We have to tell them sooner or later, Percy," Molly said gently, not meaning the same thing Percy would have.

 _Are you afraid?_ Jeanne asked. Percy turned to her and glared, lifting his chin as she laughed at him. _You, who completed the dream-quest? Percy, you have nothing left to be afraid of._

 _'Bravery,'_ he told her, _'is a foolish trait. I would have much rather been a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff than a Gryffindor.'_

She rolled her eyes, letting out a low, amused caw that drew Molly and Arthur's attention. _You would have been a Slytherin if you were anything but what you are,_ she accused. _And regardless, you are a Gryffindor: foolishly brave about all the wrong things._

"Fine," Percy said, looking back down at his parents. "They can come, then. But I don't want them."

With a troubled expression on his face, Arthur left to make the appropriate calls. Molly sat and drank tea, patting Percy's hand and chattering about all that had happened while he slept.

"Oh, that sweet Penelope Clearwater has visited you almost every single week since you fell into a coma. She's really a lovely thing." The look in Molly's eyes was shrewd. Percy just sighed.

 _'Another problem to deal with_ ,' he complained.

_Why? Had a few realizations, did we?_

There were times-- many times, actually, given that she had in fact had him burned at the stake-- when Percy didn't much like Jeanne.

Another hour later and there were too many people in Percy's room. All of his siblings from Hogwarts were there, Ron looking uncomfortable and patting Percy's foot every once and a while; Ginny crying into her mother's shoulder; and the twins cracking Sleeping Beauty jokes, as well as taunting him about Penelope.

"She even cried over you," Fred said, grinning smartly. He had the same brilliantly cruel smile that the guardsmen in Plarr had worn. They smiled that way _all the time_ , regardless of whether they were clubbing down a law-breaker or just standing on the street.

"Yeah, full-on waterworks all over your prone, sleeping body," George added, matching the grin with one of his own.

Percy sighed, looking up at Jeanne. She had decided to take a nap in the middle of the clamour, her head tucked under her wing. Did that mean she was in the Dreamworld again, he wondered. Was she nesting in the flames of Lord Arephil's fireplace, or chatting with the Pig Chief about the best ways to sauté strawberries? Was she in the same world as Tom, when Percy had to be an entire world away? "That's a shame," he said, dropping his eyes. "I hope her grades didn't suffer."

The twins let out identical guffaws and Ron began a disgusted diatribe, interspersed with Ginny's comments in staunch defense. That killed the time until Dumbledore arrived, at long last. His parents returned beside him, having gone to talk to the Healers yet again, and began passing out hot pasties to their tribe.

"Well, Mr. Weasley, I'm glad to see you awake, if not up and about," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling like the lights over the port of Plarr.

"Good morning," Percy said. He struggled to sit up a bit more, and Ginny helpfully rearranged his pillows for him. He hugged an arm around her thin shoulders briefly, making her smile. "I'm glad you could come, Professor."

"When such an _excellent_ student asked for my presence, how could I refuse?" the Headmaster said cheerfully. He dug into his pockets and produced a lemon sherbet. "Lemon sherbet?" he offered. Percy's eyes fastened on it, his attention all focusing down on that one brightly-wrapped piece of candy. No one had offered him anything yet because of the diagnostic spells, and he _desperately_ wanted to taste something here. It was the only way he could know if he was really awake or asleep.

" _Please_ ," he breathed, reaching out. Dumbledore placed the lemon sherbet in his palm, watching him with mild curiousity as Percy unwrapped the lemon sherbet and placed it on his tongue. The flavour burst across his mouth, sharp and citrusy and bright, _real_ in a way that nothing had felt yet. Percy closed his eyes at the complexity of it, the way it burned gently on his tongue and almost hurt as he moved it through his mouth.

He opened his eyes. "Jeanne," he called, loud enough that it cut through the clangor. Jeanne uncurled herself, blinking at him. He nodded at Dumbledore and she let out one of her trilling laughs, swooping low over Fred's head so he had to duck. She managed to grab the pasty from George's hands as well, depositing it Percy's own hands before taking a seat on the pillows over Percy's shoulder and staring balefully down at Dumbledore.

"Thank you," he told her. He took a bite from George's pasty, ignoring George's squawks. It was filled with creamy pumpkin and sharp bites of apple, crispy and fresh. The outside was sugared; Percy licked his thumb absently before turning his attention again on Dumbledore.

"Headmaster, we have something to discuss," he said, "and I don't believe that everyone ought to be here when I do it."

The phoenix at his shoulder must have given his words some weight, because Dumbledore nodded slowly with his gaze fastened to the brilliance of her feathers. "No, I don't believe we should have an audience. Do you object to your parents being here?"

Percy made a face. "I suppose they should be."

"Then--" Dumbledore gave a meaningful look to Molly, who started ushering her children into one of the nearby waiting areas.

"But Mum, my _pasty_ ," George whined, until she shoved a few coins at him and threw him out.

The door closed, and suddenly there was only Percy, Jeanne, Molly, Arthur, and Dumbledore.

Percy sighed. "It's not just a story, you know." He looked at Dumbledore instead of Molly so that he wouldn't have to see her confusion. "I suppose I should say, the Dreamworld-- it's not just a story. We know that it exists because all creatures go in and out of it, but so few people make a study of dreams, and we aren't usually aware of when _we_ go in and out of it." He shook his head. "No, I'm starting at the end." He sighed again, because he didn't want to do this. If he didn't, though, what had he bothered to come back for?

 _Time to be brave, Sir Percy,_ Jeanne said.

Percy met Dumbledore's eyes. "He hates you, you know. He didn't want to make it seem as if he did, because he knew I admired you, but I could tell. It was easy to see through his lies if you knew him well enough, and I did."

"Who?" Molly asked. She sat beside Percy's bed, fingers twisting in his bedsheets.

"The diary was beside me when I fell asleep, and you would have known, wouldn't you, Professor? His name was in it, after all, even if it was only his initials and his surname."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I did. I didn't think you would remember any of it, though, if you were, in fact, able to awaken."

Percy shrugged, carefully, so as not to unsettle Jeanne. "I wouldn't have, but I went on a quest. A dream-quest. I think it changed things. It's an anagram, you know. His name. He thought it was so clever. It was clever. I wouldn't have thought to do it. Tom Marvolo Riddle-- 'I am Lord Voldemort.'"

Molly let loose a gasp.

"What--?!" Arthur blustered. "We kept that book on his bedside table! The Healers tested it! The Aurors tested it!"

"The magic was done and could no longer harm him," Dumbledore soothed. "Percy has more to say, Arthur. Please."

"I'm going about this all wrong, I think," Percy remarked. "Logical is circular in dreams and I don't think I'm used to it here yet. In the World of Waking." He closed his eyes, trying to focus. He hadn't been able to do that in the Dreamworld, but he could here. "I think it was Lucius Malfoy who slipped it into Ginny's schoolbooks. I actually suspect that the entire winning of credit at Flourish and Blotts was a ruse. I took the diary from Ginny, intending to return it, but there was never a chance. So I used it for notes. He corrected them." Opening his eyes, Percy frowned at Dumbledore. "He's so clever, you know. I didn't realise how clever he was. Powerful, yes, but I never knew he was clever. And manipulative, of course, and very cruel." He shook his head. "I kept writing him. I like clever people. And I _know_ I shouldn't have, that it was a mistake, that I shouldn't have trusted anything if I didn't know where it kept its brain. But he was dreadfully charming."

Percy sighed, then wondered if the sigh gave away more than it meant to.

"Oh, Percy--" Molly began, but Dumbledore shook his head. Percy smiled at him, dipping his head in gratitude.

"But he gave away more than he meant to, too," Percy said. "He had to talk to me if he wanted to build a rapport. He said 'a willing victim is more powerful than many unwilling sacrifices, Percy,' and if I said yes-- and I did." Percy nodded sharply, hands fisting on his lap. "It's my fault if he's up and about, I take full responsibility for that. His soul is in pieces. The main soul piece, the one left when he faced Harry Potter eleven years ago, that piece managed to get the Philosopher's Stone last year. But by itself, the Stone can't create an entirely new body. Using the Elixer and the power he siphoned off me through his younger soul piece that he kept trapped in the book, I think Voldemort was able to rise again."

His parents made uncomfortable noises at the name, but Dumbledore didn't flinch.

"I knew it!" The outburst caused everyone to turn to face the door, which had cracked open to reveal Percy's assorted siblings, all looking a bit ashamed to be caught peeping, Penelope Clearwater, and an embarrassed Harry Potter.

 

* * *

 

Harry hadn't meant to call out after hearing Percy's halting, confusing explanation of what had caused his coma. Harry could feel his face growing hot as all of the assorted Weasleys and Dumbledore turned to stare at him. He could hear Fred and George mocking him from behind, nearly falling against each other with their muffled laughter.

"Mr. Potter. Miss Clearwater. I'm glad you could make it," the Headmaster said dryly. "Please close the door again, if you would." His look over the top of his half-moon spectacles was amused, but distracted, as if he was thinking more on Percy than on Harry.

"Headmaster. Percy," Penelope greeted shyly, shutting the door and nearly skinning one of the twins' noses. She walked over to hug the plump, red-headed woman who rose to her feet at their entrance. Mrs. Weasley looked just like Harry had always imagined the mother in a story would, the kind that would make ginger biscuits and bandage your knees if you skinned them. "It's lovely to see you, Mrs. Weasley. How is Percy, then?"

Harry's eyes were drawn to the phoenix hovering over Percy, her wary gaze on him as her head lowered, almost as though she were whispering in Percy's ear. Seeing her made Percy fall to the corner of Harry's vision, where Harry's connection to the ley lines made it clear that Percy glowed with the same strange light as one might see in an eclipse. He was very white and it looked as if he hadn't slept in ages, despite the opposite clearly being true.

"Oh, he smells sssstrange," Surana said thoughtfully in Harry's ear, tongue flicking out to taste the air. "Like stardust, if sstardust had a sssmell."

"Percy is doing well," said Mrs. Weasley. Her voice even _sounded_ like a mother's would in a storybook, competent and brisk, but very kind. "Though the Healers still don't have much idea why he woke up. He seems hearty and hale, however, and they don't believe he'll fall back asleep. But--"

"Please talk to me, not about me," Percy said sharply. He sounded… different. At school, Percy was always bossy-- quite a bit like his mother in tone, actually. Somehow, he now had a core of steel that he hadn't had whenever he had spoken to Harry last year. "If the Healers insist on talking to you and not to me, despite the fact that--"

"Percy!" Mrs. Weasley interjected with a horrified gasp. "I expect such behavior from the twins, but not from you!" Percy frowned, giving her a quizzical look.

"Apologies again. Am I being rude? It just seems as if they're being rude to me, since I am the one affected."

"Quite right, I do suppose, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said with a nod. He turned to Penelope and Harry. "Although we are glad to have you two here, Mr. Weasley was in the middle of discussing his experiences with us. If you and the rest of the… shall we say, 'droppers of eaves,' in the hallway wouldn't mind…."

"No, I was mostly done," Percy said quickly, before Harry or Penelope could say a word.

Dumbledore gave him a grave look. "Several things have happened recently regarding Tom Riddle, Mr. Weasley, and any insight you could give, whether you realise you have such an insight or not, could be invaluable."

Percy tilted his head, as if listening to the phoenix perched above him. "No," he said slowly. "You want to ask me about whether I know anything about his plans for the future, not just about things he's done already. That's fair, since I want to ask you about the school work I've missed and how we'll proceed there. Though if I was inclined, the information you want is worth more to you than my information is worth to me. But I won't be so stingy. We can consider it even." He appeared pleased by his own generosity. It was a shade of Percy's regular personality, but still not quite the right color for it.

"We'll wait in the hall with the other Weasleys, then," Penelope said. She was a little pinker than she normally was. "I'm so happy you're doing well, Percy."

Percy looked at her and flushed, just a little. It made him look more human and less other-worldly, more like himself and less like a male version of Luna Lovegood. "Yes. Well. Right."

She smiled and off they went, back into the hall. The Weasleys immediately closed in around them as Dumbledore firmly shut the door behind them, a spell lacing around the edges so that they couldn't eavesdrop any longer.

"What's going on?" Fred or George demanded.

"Why did you get to go in and not us?" Ron asked, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

"How does he look? I just got here," questioned the oldest.

"…Hi Harry," said the girl Weasley. "Hi Penelope." Harry wasn't sure about it, but thought that her name was Ginny. Her eyes still red from crying; she seemed more emotional about Percy's waking than the other Weasleys.

"We weren't exactly allowed in. We just fell through the doorway since Harry got over-excited while you all were trying to find a way to listen at the keyhole," Penelope said sternly. Every Weasley, including the oldest, turned red at her words. "We're to wait until he's done talking to the Headmaster. Harry, do you know the Weasleys? I've gotten to know them all very well since last summer."

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling awkward. "Yes. Ron is in my class, and Fred and George make enough trouble that even the Ravenclaws and Slytherins notice them." That made Fred ad George both smile like madmen, and Ron just scowled more.

Penelope turned her gaze to the remaining two. "Well this is Ginny Weasley," she said of the small red-headed girl, "and this is Charlie. Charlie isn't in Hogwarts anymore."

"Now I work with dragons," Charlie told him, flashing a grin. He had a very sensible, friendly face. "The only other Weasley left is Bill, but we can't get hold of him-- the goblins say that he's working in some tomb and can't be reached."

The corners of Penelope's mouth turned down as she ushered them all into the waiting area nearby with all of a prefect's determination that she would be obeyed. "Bill is the eldest Weasley," she explained to Harry absently. "Charlie, are you sure he can't be reached? I know Percy would like to see him."

"We haven't been able to, no."

"Percy will have to make do with us," one of the twins said dramatically, holding a hand to his forehead. "I know it will be hard, and that we are poor substitutes--"

"--but he will just have to endure," finished the second twin. They stopped and both fixed their eyes on Harry. Unlike the others, their eyes were more hazel than brown or blue, and were actually somewhat unsettling when they stared like that. "It's nice to see you again, Harry. The last time we saw you--"

"--you were pulling rank on Draco Malfoy on the Quidditch field." The two laughed.

"We've made up." Harry took a seat beside Ginny, who immediately began squirming. The chairs weren't that uncomfortable, really. The waiting area by Percy's room was actually rather nice, with low dark pink couches and chairs, and a potted plant in the corner. The coffee table was scattered with old back-issues of Witch Weekly, just like a Muggle waiting room would have had tabloids.

"Why?" asked the twin on the left. "He's still a nasty little thing. I'd hate to see what will happen if he's made a prefect or something later on. Being on the Qudditch team and having a father on the board gave him a big enough head as it is."

Harry lifted his chin, annoyed. "I'll thank you not to be rude about my friend when I'm standing right here," he said, leeching from every bit of the etiquette lessons Draco and Blaise had tried to give him that Harry had mostly ignored, "and both Draco and I have our reasons for doing what we do. Not everything is as simple as you might think."

"If you say so-- Harry Potter." His name they said together, eyes gleaming. They were a strange pair. Harry honestly found it silly. It wasn't as if he wouldn't do the same if he had a twin, but from the outside, it was ridiculous to see the way they circled and prodded to get what they wanted. He decided to ignore them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charlie," he said pointedly. "Do you work at one of the dragon sanctuaries? I've read loads about them in books."

Bemused, Charlie fell into a conversation with Harry until the door finally opened again. Dumbledore exited with a few kind words to the gathered Weasleys, appearing a bit pensive, and then they all rushed in again.

"Since you're apparently answering when people talk now, let's get right into the important questions!" George-- and it was George, Harry thought-- taunted first thing.

"Is Penelope your girlfriend?" Fred continued, sitting on Percy's cot and leaning in. Percy batted him away irritably. "She's been very dedicated about coming by."

Percy shot them a flat look, shooing the phoenix off of his bedside at long last. Mrs. Weasley was looking teary still, and Mr. Weasley left the room, following Dumbledore into the hall. Harry watched him gesticulate furiously at the Headmaster while Percy said in a very no-nonsense tone of voice, "No. We're friends."

Harry tore his eyes away from the brewing argument to see a flash of hurt appear and disappear from Penelope's face.

"Where'd you pick up the phoenix?" Ron asked, looking at the preening red bird jealously. "Did you seriously get it while you were sleeping? I wish I had one."

Finding this more interesting than what was happening in the hallway, Harry watched Percy look at the phoenix, who looked back down at him. "She was a guide in my dreams, and came with me when I woke," he said. "Are you going to interrogate me all day?"

"You could ask them some things about what they've been doing too, Percy," Mrs. Weasley said gently. "Things have happened here while you were sleeping."

Percy shrugged. "I suppose they have." He reached up as if to touch his hair and something on his hand caught Harry's eye.

"What is that?" he asked.

("It's not just like ssstardust," Surana said thoughtfully, half to herself. "Like wood smoke, and the water from an ocean, and grasssss in the mountains.")

Percy turned his own hand over and stared at it. Then he turned as red as any of the Weasleys had in the hall, worse than any rose ever could have been. Harry could see the mark better in that position: the shape of a kiss branded on the back of Percy's hand, as dark as if it were burned into his skin with ink. "It's nothing." His voice was hushed as he rubbed it with his fingers. "After all, it happened in a dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter has been done for weeks and just wanted editing, but I was deciding how to format it. Theoretically, my chapter outline calls for this chapter to go all the way through the end of February, but since this section was already 9000 words and they're barely in the beginning of January, I decided not to do that to either of us and re-outline so it could be two chapters instead.
> 
> I have a few thoughts/questions which are currently up for input: I am considering how to mark for Percy's upcoming romantic pairings, as well as for if Harry has any minor (very minor) romantic entanglements before Blaise. First off, is this something you desire, or is it spoiler-y? Second, any thoughts on the best way to mark non-final pairings? The tags rather than the pairings section?
> 
> Other question! I have been considering trying to find a way to share some of the things that go into the creation-process of making these chapters, since I do a hell of a lot of planning on paper, use music, picture references, and a ton of other things. If this is something you're interested in, please let me know what you think the best format to do this in is.
> 
> And finally! I am trying to work out a writing schedule so I can work on this and my other projects, especially since these chapters are getting longer and longer, and thus taking longer and longer to write and edit, and I'm working seven days a week besides. Once I find a stable groove, I'll let you know a regular update day, but for now, it's a free-for-all.


	22. [Year Two] Red-Handed, Red-Faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow wars, a dwarven Valentine's Day, and assorted doom. Being a wizard is never simple and straightforward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been making a few structural decisions during my break, and would like to point your attention to the first couple paragraphs of chapters one and nine (the official beginnings of "Year One" and "Year Two"). These paragraphs are new, and as I'm planning more for how the overall shape of Common Sense will look, necessary.

Over the course of the months of January and February, the grounds of Hogwarts accumulated a crisp layer of snow. It clung to the eaves and the gargoyles on the roof, glazed the tops of the trees, and frosted Hagrid's beard on his morning jaunts around the grounds. Harry found himself pleasantly involved in a number of extra lessons-- alchemy and Earth magic with the Flamels, the Dueling Club that Perenelle Flamel had started, and Occlumency with Professor Snape. The only way it could have been more wonderful was if there were more hours in the day to balance his friends and his studying.

Harry had come back from St. Mungo's and the next evening at dinner had told Blaise all about Percy's story, and how strange he had been behaving: the long sentences and rambling, the lack of filter regarding what he spoke, and his odd experiences.

"He must have been in the Dreamworld," Blaise said shortly. He seemed like he was in a bad mood, as he had been since the train back to Hogwarts. Harry had hoped it would have passed by now.

"The Dreamworld?" Harry might have seen it mentioned off-handedly once or twice, but never in any detail. He had assumed it was a metaphor, as wizards were wont to use.

"When everyone sssleeps, they enter the Dreamworld," Surana explained. "Muggle or Wizard, human or animal."

"It's a place in the crack between dimensions, where we go when we sleep," Blaise said. "Sort of the space between the mortal world and Elphyne, or whatever other worlds may exist. Elizabeth's Isle in the Bermuda Triangle is theoretically on another plane. Only a handful of people ever remember anything that goes on in the Dreamworld. It tends to drive them mad."

"I wonder if Percy remembers. I hope he'll let me ask when he comes back to school."

"You have entirely too many projects already," Blaise grumbled.

Harry frowned. It was true-- he did have too many projects, or more correctly, there were too many things to do and too few hours in the day. Between regular classes, alchemy lessons with Nicolas Flamel, Earth magic and Dueling Club with Perenelle Flamel, and starting on Friday, the first of his practical lessons in Occlumency with Professor Snape.

"You might be right," Harry admitted reluctantly. Blaise's mouth fell open and he widened his eyes as far as they would go; Harry gave him a shove. "Shut it. How is Draco?"

Blaise's face dropped and, tight-lipped, he shook his head. Every time Harry had seen Draco since the day before yesterday, when they had come back from winter hols, the blonde had been pale and unhappy. Harry had set Surana to watching over him but couldn't pinpoint the source of Draco's distress, other than the fact that letters from home had the tendency to make him burn things with a very precisely executed Incendio.

"It will work out," said Harry staunchly.

Blaise quirked his brow. "When?"

"Ahem." The purposefully delicate cough came from their left. Both turned to see a Weasley twin hovering at the edge of the Slytherin table with an irrepressible grin, attracting glares and confusion from almost the entire school. The other Weasley twin, meanwhile, was off chattering to someone at the Hufflepuff table, standing in much the same position. "I am pleased to announce that the Weasley family will be hosting a snowball fight on the lawn in thirty minutes, to which you are invited, with one guest of your choosing. Please RSVP promptly, or you will be assumed a participant and will be pelted with icy missiles wherever you go."

He stood there, looking remarkably pleased with himself, while both Harry and Blaise stared. Harry couldn't think of a time that he had actually been a participant of a snow fight rather than the target of one. When he was younger, before he had realised he could hide at the library, Dudley and his friends had taken a particular joy in hunting him down wherever he was and assaulting him with snowballs, or tossing him into snow banks whenever there was enough snow. A few times, he and a book had both gotten drenched-- he still had a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's _Return of the King_ that rippled and bent around words blurred by wet spots and ink smears.

"No thanks," he said shortly, turning back to his pot roast with determination. But Blaise was smiling all of a sudden and entirely too bright-eyed for Harry's liking.

"We're going."

"Blaise…."

Blaise shook his head. "Fresh air is good for you. You study too much, and I want to hit a Gryffindor in the face with snow."

"You'll be having fun with Gryffindors." The warning wasn't, quite, a whine, as Harry tried to appeal to Blaise's inner Slytherin.

"There are worse things."

Harry shot him a tragic look, envisioning wet clothes and lost reading time. "I have lessons with one of the Professors Flamel later," he reminded.

"You always have lessons later." Much to the amusement of the Weasley, Blaise proceeded to pull Harry up out of his seat and drag him toward the door. "Let's get cloaks and gloves."

Harry's last sight before he was dragged from the Great Hall was the waggle of the Weasley twin's fingers in farewell.

 

* * *

 

It was in this way that later that week, Harry found himself heading to his first practical Occlumency lesson while soaking wet. Spells to dry oneself off were more Draco's forte than Harry's, and if Blaise had known similar spells, he had been too busy laughing at a severely defeated Gryffindor team to notice.

Lee Jordan and the Weasleys had managed to recruit a good ten people for each side of the battle on Monday, and by Friday, it had turned into an out-and-out war after dinner every evening. All of the Gryffindors were on one side, and everyone from another house was on the other, meaning that Gryffindor had a natural advantage since they knew one another better. However, that hadn't stopped Harry's team from ruthlessly winning every battle they could. He and Blaise, being somewhat more cunning than most of the others as the only Slytherin and honorary-Slytherin, had been natural leaders of a number of sieges on the Gryffindor stronghold. Ron Weasley had made a fuss early on about Blaise being a Slytherin and had lived to regret it: Harry had found that he had excellent aim when he had pitched a wad of snow directly to Ron's chin. The ginger boy had been sent reeling into a pile of snow, leading to universal mocking and the acceptance of Blaise amongst the mixed-House side.

Now, though, it was unfortunately time to meet with Professor Snape.

Behind his desk in the Potions classroom, Professor Snape was as grim-faced and sour as ever, grading papers with a slash of his quill. His face was lit by the greenish-blue glow of several bottles of luminescent potions that had been stacked on his desk, each one roiling and flickering like a miniature stormy ocean. Harry approached quietly, regretting Surana's continued presence with Draco. At least stroking her back would give him something to do besides shift uncomfortably on his feet and frown at the flashes of light that kept sparkling at the corners of his vision. His first lesson with Perenelle on Tuesday had been less helpful and more grumpy. She still wasn't terribly pleased with him for connecting with the ley lines.

"Professor Snape?"

The professor's dark eyes cut to his. "Yes, Potter?"

"Um. Practical lesson in Occlumency today?"

Snape actually looked somewhat confused for a moment before nodding. "Ah," he said deliberately, and let silence fall for several beats longer than Harry was comfortable with. "And did you read the books that I assigned you, Mr. Potter?" he continued. His voice was soft; Harry wasn't sure what he had done, but it must have been something to make Professor Snape sound so dangerous.

"Yes, I did-- early on," he babbled. "I started to work on meditation, since I'm learning some Earth magic with Professor Flamel-- I'm wondering if I could connect the study of ley lines and Earth magic to Occlumency, since focusing on the Earth should theoretically center the subject more and make it easier, and the Earth does have a seemingly endless amount of power to strengthen Occlumency shields. I haven't had many more dreams since I started."

"Things are often quite different in practice rather than theory."

Harry flushed at the mockery. "Oh, I know. I'm sorry, sir."

Snape looked at him for a long moment. "I spoke to the professors Flamel regarding your… activities the night that you returned to Hogwarts." Snape said the word "activities" so delicately that it was as if he was speaking of a rat he had found in his wardrobe and had caught it under a glass to ponder how best to vivisect it.

Harry didn't say anything, watching carefully as Snape stood. He was never quite sure what to expect from the dour Potions professor.

"What were you thinking, Mr. Potter?"

Harry frowned. Professor Snape hadn't accused him of attention-seeking, which would have been his normal question. "I…. Professor, have you ever read any books by Robert Jordan? Or J.R.R. Tolkien? Or maybe even Brian Jacques?"

Snape was unreadable. "I can't say I have."

"They write fantasy novels," Harry explained. He wasn't sure if Snape would understand it, but it was the only way he knew to talk about it. "In fantasy novels, there's always a chosen one. The one person who can save their world or even just their home."

"And you wanted to be this person?"

Harry laughed. "No. I thought it was ridiculous. The idea any one person could save everything-- completely bonkers. Sometimes, they had help, but they were always alone when it mattered. Why couldn't anyone else help them? Why wasn't there a team? I mean, Frodo had a Fellowship, but still, that barely lasted one book."

"I'm not sure I follow you, Potter."

"I hate prophecies," said Harry firmly, "but I still have to do something if I see something I can do. I know you know something of it. Everyone seems to, and I can't just sit on my hands. I don't want to be a chosen one, but I want to help. And no one else seems to be worrying about this."

Snape took his wand from his desk, long fingers curling around it slowly. "Unfortunately, adults generally don't confide their worries in children. It might do you to remember that."

Harry watched, slightly worried that Snape would start flinging "Legimens" at him at any moment. That seemed like the kind of man Snape was-- the kind that took any opportunity that presented itself, as long as it put him out ahead at the end of it. "I will. But unless I see evidence, I have to proceed as if what I know are the only true things. Otherwise, I'm just watching Sauron taking over Middle-Earth and the Shire be razed. I might as well be an Uruk-Hai at that point."

Snape snorted and the wand twitched. "Legimens," he drawled.

Even expecting it, even having trained for it and practiced for it, there was no way to really and truly be prepared. The classroom grew blurred around the edges before it melted like so much snow, the same snow that was wet and dripping from Harry's clothes even now--

_Blaise's face was red-cheeked from the cold and he was grinning, dignity forgotten as he pelted Fred Weasley with a half-dozen snowballs, turning to blind Harry with an expression so happy it made Harry's own face grow hot instead of cold._

No. Harry shook his head, the classroom flickering before his eyes.

 _"I don't care if you're_ cold, _boy," Uncle Vernon sneered. His face was red from anger, not cold-- the Dursleys were all safe and warm in the house, so why did_ Harry _have to shovel the car out in the driveway? It wasn't fair--_

No.

_It was at the house on Persephone Square when Harry woke up in the  middle of the night to find Blaise half in his bed, pushing down the blue coverlet and shoving their shoulders together to nudge him out of the way._

_"What are you doing?" Harry asked groggily._

_Blaise glared for a moment, his eyes bloodshot and red, before burying his face into the pillow beside Harry. He muttered something about Harry disappearing and his lips brushed against Harry's skin as he spoke, his hand warm around Harry's wrist, fingertips brushing against Harry's palm. Harry wondered what it would be like to--_

No! Harry flung himself against the intrusion, trying to distract, to find something more innocent, but all he could think of was--

_\--red. Harry saw it on his hand when he wiped at his face. His cheek and his arms stung from Piers Polkiss having shoved him onto the sidewalk. Dudley and all his friends were laughing, and Harry could barely see them through his broken glasses--_

_\--red. Anthony kept turning red around him, and Harry might have liked that once, but it was making him uncomfortable now. It was hard to be around him when all he did was complain about Harry not spending time with the other Ravenclaws._

_\--red. Percy's hair against the hospital bed was red, and Penelope looked so sad. Would Percy ever wake up?_

_\--red. The sunset in Positano was red and orange, calm--_

_Calm. Red-- sunset-- red._

Harry blinked deliberately, breaking eye contact and looking away from Snape's open, dark gaze.

Snape smiled. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but had a kind of grim satisfaction to it. "Not terrible."

Harry grinned, making the professor's own expression turn stony from shock. "I imagine a true attack would be harder to deflect, sir," he said. "If I know what's happening, it's just an association game. But I need actual defenses against unseen attacks."

"Correct." Snape set his wand down on the ungraded papers. "If you can deflect attacks that you know are happening often enough, it will set the patterns in your mind so that they become part of your defenses against unseen attacks. It's a matter of making connections between your magic and your brain. Meditate tonight, and consider what went wrong and what went right with your defenses."

"Thank you, Professor Snape," Harry said, and since he was clearly dismissed, he left.

 

* * *

 

By Valentine's Day, Percy Weasley still hadn't returned to school.

"His parents say that there's no point, since he's already missed too much of the year to make it up," Penelope explained. She had taken him, Mandy, and Padma to watch the Ravenclaw Quidditch practice (ostensibly) and study (actually). They were sitting in the stands, working on Arithmancy and keeping half an eye on the antics of the players as they prepared for the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match the following week. "And the Healers are still running tests. His sleep patterns are strange."

"So he'll be here an extra year?" Mandy asked. She had Padma's non-studying hand in one of her own and was painting the nails different colors with painstaking wand-work.

Penelope nodded, a shadow passing over her face. "It's… disappointing to him, I think. He was probably going to be Head Boy next year if he hadn't been in a coma, and I'm not sure if they'll give it to him now, since someone else should have a chance. Maybe the year after next. And he won't be in classes with the rest of his year anymore, since we'll be seventh years and he'll only be sixth."

"He can't make it up over the summer?" They all ducked a rogue Bludger and had to wait for one of the Beaters to retrieve it before Penelope could answer Padma's question.

"Oi, you better do a better job of keeping track of that Bludger against Slytherin!" she yelled at Duncan Inglebee as he passed. She shook her head. "Shoddy Beating, that one. No, he can't make it up over the summer. I don't think so, anyway. He's been… different."

"Good different?" Padma said, perking up. She set down her notes.

"Kissing different?" Mandy asked, smirking as Penelope squeaked.

"Oh Merlin," Harry groaned, beginning to flush at the same time as Penelope.

"This is what I get for talking to second years," Penelope bemoaned. "No, not 'kissing different,' you brat. He told me very explicitly that we're just friends, and it was almost painful."

"Ouch," Mandy agreed.

Silently, Harry patted her hand. He suspected that despite her brave face, Penelope was actually rather hurt.

"We're still good friends. It's fine." She shot a glare at the Quidditch players as they missed a catch. "Let's stop watching this rot and head in for breakfast. I think the Gryffindors have the pitch soon anyway."

The girls and Harry agreeably began to pack up their things, glad to get out of the cold and back inside. Blaise, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle joined them just outside the Great Hall.

"You're not going to want to go in there," Draco warned. His pale face was all eyes lately, gaunt and haunted-looking.

"Why's that?" Mandy darted past them and cracked open the door. She shut it just as quickly. "Yeah, let's just go somewhere else."

"Um, you're blocking the door." It was little Ginny Weasley, blushing as she looked pointedly at Harry's chin instead of his eyes. He never had quite determined why she acted so strange around him, but fortunately it didn't affect him much since the only time they were together was when Fred and George launched one of their snow battles again. Even so, every time they did, she didn't take obvious shots and hesitated when she should have thrown. It was annoying.

"Let's just go in," Harry said. "It can't be that bad, and I'm starving."

Draco muttered something, Blaise groaned, and Mandy shrugged. "It's on your own head, then," she said, and they all went in.

It looked like a jewelry store had exploded. The tables were festooned by tablecloths made of delicate gold mesh link. Overhead, between the floating candles that now sported gold and silver wire twisted around them, there were strings of clear diamonds and dark rubies. Glittering opals were inset in shards around the bases of the goblets, which were made out of something thicker and heavier than glass. On the walls, between tapestries of intense battles, were swords and axes. The last panel of each tapestry ended with two bearded dwarves having their hands tied together with red string, their bloody palms pressed together and their eyes only for one another.

"Oh." Harry looked up at the head table, where Perenelle was smiling widely and Nicolas was, as ever, scowling fondly at his wife. "I guess the Flamels decorated for Valentine's Day?"

"Ridiculous," Draco said, with a flash of his old temper. "Valentine's is a _Muggle_ holiday."

"Oh, shove off," Mandy said. "I kind of like it." With that, the Ravenclaws and the Slytherins parted ways.

"I believe that we have all arrived now for this festive, festive day!" Dumbledore said grandly, some time after they took their seats and the Quidditch team gradually made their way in as well. "Professor Perenelle Flamel would like to explain the decorations, which she had direction over last evening."

When Perenelle stood, she had to stand on her chair to get any kind of height. "Dwarves," she declared, "marry for love and love alone. We don't marry often as a result, and many dwarves are too busy to get married at all, regardless of anything else. When a dwarf does get married, the courtship lasts about a decade, and generally there has to be some great battle involved." She gestured here at one of the tapestries, where a dwarf with a pair of short swords was gleefully divesting a dragon from its head. "Muggles have laid claim over this date, and wizards claim the first of the month for Imbolc, but dwarves have a holiday in February as well: Andrang, which is difficult to translate, but means something like 'Love Battle.' We celebrate this holiday to remind ourselves that love is worth fighting for, and Headmaster Dumbledore allowed us to share this with you in the hopes of expanding your cultural horizons. Enjoy the festivities of the day."

Across from Harry, Terry wondered, "What festivities?"

 Valentine's Day fell on a Sunday, so fortunately there were no classes, but the Flamels' romantic introduction to the day seemed to have set the brains of Hogwarts' students on fire. Letters were sent back and forth all day long, pink and floral-scented. The owls eventually took to glaring as they went about their business, likely tired by their repeated trips across the grounds and disgusted by the ribbons that tangled in their claws. Spells of silver, gold, red, and pink traced hearts and lines of poetry over the heads of various students, and the points of every house went steadily down over the course of the day as couples were caught kissing in corridors. Meanwhile, troupes of dwarves pitched open battle by the lake "for love, for glory!"

Harry spent the day with his own one true love: the library. Draco was at Quidditch practice for the upcoming game, and the other Slytherin boys had gone with him. The girls were all a-twitter in the mood of the day, so he ended up reading quite happily beneath Madam Pince's watchful eye instead of being with his friends. It was because of this that he was there to hear the first year Ravenclaw girls talking to Luna.

"No one sent you any cards, did they, Loony?" The hard voice was coming from the stacks to the right of Harry's table. He looked up, glaring in that direction. The girl was _so loud_ \-- how could Harry study if she was going to carry on like that? "Can't imagine any boy would want to give a card to crazy ol' Loony Lovegood."

"No, no one sent me a card." Harry looked up again at that-- it was Luna's voice, breathy and quiet. "Why would I care if a boy sent me a card? Boys are far less interesting than Snaffledorfs."

There was a thump like books clattering to the floor. "Better pick those up, Loony. Are your Snaffledorfs down there?"

Another girl giggled. "Maybe we should try to find a boy for poor Loony. She's always sniffing around that Potter boy, after all, and with the Slytherins. No accounting for _taste_ , I suppose."

Harry got up, leaving his books at the table.

"What poor boy would we want to stick with her? Longbottom is the only one stupid enough, and even he has a decent family. Oops. Clumsy me." There was another noise, and a slight grunt of pain. "Better clean that up, Lovegood. Wouldn't want Madam Pince to kick you out for making a mess."

When Harry rounded the corner of the shelves, he saw three girls standing around Luna, who was crouched on the floor next to her spilled books, her hair dripping with hot chocolate that seemed to have come from a mug that was on its side on the floor and her eyes glazed with tears that she was quickly blinking away.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, trying to stay calm as he walked forward.

"Oh! Harry!" one of the girls, a curly-haired brunette, said. She smiled. "Oh, _so_ nice to see you! We were just helping Luna up-- she had a fall."

"No, she didn't," he said, reaching down to grab Luna's hand. She let him help her to her feet, her pale complexion turning ruddy underneath the burn of the hot chocolate. She was wearing her bottlecap necklace and teak ring from Harry, which had held up fine, but her radish earrings were stained brown. "You lot are being rotten."

The girls looked horrified. "What?! How dare y--"

Harry was remembering, now, all the times Luna had sat by herself and said she was fine; all the times he had caught her mending her torn robes; all the times she had been trying to bespell ink out of ruined books or her hair. She wouldn't shower if the other girls were headed to the bathrooms, she had said. He had assumed that she just liked her privacy.

"Luna is one of my friends," he said, keeping his voice as soft as any of Professor Snape's more deadly tones, "and if you ever harass her again, I'll remind you that most of my other friends are Slytherins, and my familiar is a snake. She may not be poisonous, but I bet you wouldn't like finding her in your beds. So lay off."

"We'll tell the professors you're threatening us!" the curly-haired girl blustered. Luna was staying suspiciously quiet, chocolate dripping off of her nose. "We haven't done a thing to that ridiculous Loony Lovegood that she doesn't deserve. She's always _staring_ and talking about bloody Snaffledorfs-- or Gragsnarks or Nibri or Narfles-- wasting everyone's time, blathering on about things that don't exist. She should just shut it and let us get on in peace."

"Why don't you shut it instead?" Harry suggested, still trying to channel Snape despite the rage and discomfort building in his chest. "You can say whatever you like-- I still have plenty of Pensieve memories that would look bad for you, and so does Luna. Who do you think would be believed after that?"

He turned and steered Luna back to his table to grab his things. She need to go back to the dorms at change, likely, but he needed his books first.

"Thank you," Luna said softly, once they were out of earshot of the girls. "I don't think it will help, though. I still have to sleep in the dormitories, you know."

Harry couldn't imagine not being able to sleep safely. Even when he was with the Dursleys, he still had a cupboard to go into or a room to close the door. The Dursleys preferred him out of sight and out of mind-- besides Dudley, they didn't actively chase him down to hurt him, and even Dudley was easily distracted.

"We'll ask Penelope. She'll know what to do," Harry said. "Could you tell me a little more about those mushrooms in Beshaar? You said they had something to do with dreams."

Luna brightened and, as they walked back to the Ravenclaw dorms, they discussed Potions theory the entire way.

 

* * *

 

Harry was in the Night Room with the Slytherin boys that night, playing chess with Draco and sharing headphones with Blaise, when the festivities of the day caught up with him.

"I can't believe those girls," he was grumbling, poking a pawn forward with a stern finger. The pawn gave him a desperate look, staring at Draco's side with fear in his carved eyes. "They were just being cruel to Luna for no reason."

"They're probably jealous that Luna is your _girlfriend_ and they don't have a way to get on your good side if she's there," Blaise said, changing songs on his Sing-spinner.

"She is _not_ my girlfriend," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I don't _have_ a girlfriend. I don't _want_ a girlfriend. What is everyone's obsession with this lately? She's one of my mates. I'd do the same thing for her that I'd do for any of you if a bunch of girl started throwing chocolate in your hair and wrecking your perfectly innocent books. Bloody hell."

Blaise shot him a smile at that, since Harry hardly ever swore, and the way the slow motion unfurled on his lips made Harry smile back.

Snorting, Draco said, "It doesn't matter what's true. It matters how it appears. You do have to admire Lovegood for grace under pressure. She kept it well under-wraps that she was being harassed."

Blaise raised his eyebrows. "You would know."

Three different owls took that opportunity to rap on the windowpane. Goyle, who was closest, flung it open to let in a gust of chilly air and the owls, who dropped their silver, gold, and pink envelopes on Harry's lap one after the next.

"See?" Blaise said glumly. "Valentines."

Harry huffed a sigh and took up the letters, slitting open the first with a wave of his wand.

 

_Dear Harry,_

_I can never tell what you're thinking in person, so I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you anonymously that I do really, really like you. It doesn't seem like anything will come of it, but I wanted to let you know. You're very brave, and very intelligent-- you're always able to think of ways around problems, and you stick up for what you believe in. So even if you never like me back, at least I will have sent this letter to tell you I care about you, and even if you never know, I'll still try to watch out for you._

_Yours,_

_An Admirer_

 

Harry scowled at it, a weird feeling of flattered unease weighing on his chest. The hand was blocky and a little familiar, steady and sure with square letters and perfect penmanship. He put it back in the gold envelope and picked up the next. The pink letter read insipidly:

 

_His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad_

_His hair is as dark as a blackboard._

_I wish he were mine, he's truly divine,_

_the hero who conquered the Dark Lord._

 

That one, Harry laughed at, shoving it into Blaise's hands when he peered over Harry's shoulder and opening the next. While Blaise read it aloud for the benefit of the other Slytherins, Harry felt himself grow cold.

 

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_My apologies for taking so long to send this letter to you. You may not remember me, but we had the pleasure of meeting at the Malfoys' Yule party. I greatly enjoyed speaking with you about ley lines and the Three Lords, and would be interested in talking with you further on the subject. I am due to visit Hogwarts with the Minister in April or early May, and was hoping that we would be able to talk at this time. You are clearly a young man of great intellect, and I would love to hear more of your views on the subject of the Three Lords.  
_

_Please feel free to discuss this with your guardians or Headmaster if you are at all concerned about meeting with me, though I'm sure that my connection to the Minister will vouch for our meeting being all that is proper. Your friend, Draco, will surely speak well of me also._

_I am looking forward to your reply and, hopefully, to hearing from you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_Secretary to the Minister of Magic_

 

Harry had stared blankly at the letter for several moments by the time he realised that Draco had pulled the letter from his grasp and was reading it. He looked up dully to see Draco scowling down at the crisp paper, his fingers digging into it. "Harry, you can't possibly meet with Riddle."

"Why not?" he asked darkly, feeling a sudden burst of anger at Draco's attitude. After all he had done this year-- refusing to speak to Harry, taunting Hermione, putting Harry into danger at his Yule party-- now he wanted to make up for it? "You introduced us, didn't you?"

"Yes, but…." He waved a hand around, frustrated. "I had to!"

"Why did you 'have' to?" Harry demanded. "What exactly is going on, Draco?"

Draco shook his head, scanning the letter again. The other boys were silently looking between them, Crabbe and Goyle impassive. "He should meet with Riddle," Crabbe grunted, looking at Draco significantly. Draco shook his head once more. The letter was half-crumpled in his hand.

"He really shouldn't." Draco looked up at the two Slytherins, jaw firming. "Leave," he ordered, "and head back to the dorms."

"Draco…."

"Go." The two bigger boys stumbled to their feet and left the room, frowning the entire time.

"Draco, be careful what you say," Blaise warned, watching Draco pace with a heavy-lidded look. He set the Sing-spinner down, straightening a little. "You don't have the option to be honest."

"Don't I? There's always an _option_." Draco laughed, but it sounded choked. "Perenelle Flamel says-- even Professor _Snape_ says--"

"They aren't Pureblooded," Blaise said flatly.

"So I have _bad_ options, but they're still options." Draco looked at Harry, decided. "You know that he's Voldemort."

Harry nodded. "I do."

"And he's staying at my house."

"Yes."

"And that Percy Weasley was nearly killed to provide the energy to join two pieces of Voldemort's soul together so he could be resurrected with the Philosopher's Stone?"

"…Soul?"

"And that Father has been bleeding myself and mother to make sure our home welcomes him into the wards?"

"That's what it's for?"

Draco laughed. "Among other things, including aiding in his resurrection ritual. And did you know about the bone-burning?"

"I had guessed--"

"Did you know it's because he thinks you're the Grey Lord, and he doesn't want you to have access to your ghost army?"

Harry could hear a ringing in his ears, and it took him a moment to realise that it wasn't just his ears-- the entire castle had rung out like a bell, and he could see it blaze at the corners of his vision with power, stronger than anything he had seen when he had traveled the ley lines. It reminded him of the way the stones had just… settled, when he had come back to the castle at the beginning of the year.

Wide-eyed and desperate, Draco said, "And did you know, I think he's right, too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, check out the opening note about the new parts of chapters one and nine.
> 
> Much to my amusement, as I was doing a fact check in Chamber of Secrets, J.K. Rowling's chapter on Valentine's Day also ends on a cliffhanger line-- "It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago." There are only one or two more chapters left for Year Two, depending on how well I'm able to stick to plan. I'll be updating the pairings to be a complete listing some time shortly after the end of Year Two and before Year Three begins, since I'm finalizing some plans there. I'm aiming for Sunday updates every two or three weeks-- more details as I test the writing schedule I've laid out for myself.
> 
> In Chamber of Secrets, there were classes on Valentine's Day, but I think Rowling had her dates screwy there, since it fell on a Sunday that year. It's okay, though. I fixed it. ;) The ghost army bit was actually mentioned in Dream-Quest, but I'm not sure if anyone caught it. Ghosts armies are present in folklore from the Middle Ages; I took an extra step and tied it to Arthurian legend and the sleeping kings.
> 
> Have I mentioned that I really like my dwarves pitching battle on Hogwart's lawn versus J.K. Rowling's dwarves in cupid costumes? Haha. SEE THEY ARE CANON GUYS. Mine are just awesomer. "For love! For glory!"


	23. [Year Two] Snowflake Ephemera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy returns to Hogwarts, much to his parents' disapproval. Harry leads a war.

Percy hadn't slept in almost three months, and everyone kept telling him he should be insane. He would jerk himself awake right before he should have entered a dream state, too nervous about what he may or may not find to dare going deeper. He didn't want to dream like anyone else, not anymore. He wanted to walk in the Drethazi again. He wanted to see Tom.

"You think I'm not going insane, but you're assuming I'm not mad already," he had told the Healer, eyes following the man as he fidgeted with Percy's charts, and muttered to himself. The Healers were dreadfully interested in him now, always bustling in and out of his hospital room and giving him tests, running diagnostic spells, checking him for brain damage or memory loss. They were worse than the merchants of Plarr, never speaking to him, but at him.

"Nonsense," the Healer had said briskly, but he had looked concerned nonetheless.

An expanse of white snow and green trees blurred outside of the carriage as Percy looked out, trying to ignore the way his parents whispered. It was as if they had forgotten that they were only a foot away and he could hear everything they were saying. They could say whatever they wanted, as far as Percy was concerned. He had gotten his own way, after all.

Hogwarts was becoming clearer by the second, looming on the road ahead like a behemoth of grey stone. The setting sun painted the stones with a reddish hue, uncomfortably similar to blood.

 _I think you would find sleeping less of a trial than you think,_ Jeanne said. She was perched above Percy's shoulder, her plumage a bright spark of light inside the close carriage.

 _'I don't want to be disappointed,'_ he replied. He couldn't imagine falling asleep and not being back there, in the Dreamland, by the Door where he had spent years in wait.

The carriage rolled to a stop, the ghostly horses that pulled it shifting restlessly as their harnesses jangled and clanged; someone, likely Hagrid, had strung the harnesses with bells, and the merriment seemed to make the Thestrals nervous. Percy had never seen them before, but apparently seeing death in a dream counted, or maybe Thestrals were half-dream themselves.

"Coming, Percy?" Molly asked.

Percy followed his parents out of the carriage and stepped foot on Hogwarts' grounds for the first time in almost a year. In front of the doors to the entrance hall, Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore waited, McGonagall all in green and Dumbledore in narcissus yellow.

"Percy! Welcome back to Hogwarts!" Professor McGonagall said, approaching him to clasp his hands in hers. Her eyes widened as Jeanne flew out of the carriage to rest on one of Percy's shoulders, which had to be padded beneath his robes. In the Dreamworld, it had never hurt when she perched on him, but in the World of Waking, it certainly did.

"And I see you have a new… familiar."

"Jeanne," Percy said, "and she is her own creature. A pleasure to see you again, professor. Headmaster." He nodded to them firmly, keeping his head up.

"Let's take ourselves to my office," Dumbledore said warmly, gesturing them all inside. Percy looked up as the expanse of the ceiling closed in. As he entered the castle, he could almost hear the ghost of elfin songs echo through the halls on the wind. It startled him. Hogwarts had never seemed so welcoming and so otherworldly at the same time.

It was the vernal equinox, which Hogwarts had as a long weekend for the more traditional students, to match the Easter holidays the following month. This meant that although some students had gone to visit family, those still remaining were idle enough to gawk as Percy passed. They craned their necks and fell over their neighbors, filling the corridors with the whisper of gossip.

"The Weasley boy-- the one in the coma--"

"Woke up _I_ heard, but they say he's still terrible ill--"

"Wonder what he's doing here?"

"Is that a _phoenix_?!"

"Awfully pale beneath those freckles and glasses--"

"Butterscotch toffee," the Headmaster said to a gargoyle, and the statue moved away peaceably to reveal a staircase, twisting upward into one of the towers.

"Thank you," Percy whispered to it as he passed. It never hurt to give your thanks to things that everyone else took for granted, and he could have sworn he saw the gargoyle wink as he passed it.

The light conversation that the adults had struck up fell away as they all took their seats, Professor McGonagall standing behind Dumbledore's desk chair with her hands linked together. Jeanne, meanwhile, trilled a greeting and flew over to a perch in the corner. Percy followed her flight to see her land next to another phoenix, one who looked highly stunned at her presence and lowered his head and a wing in a bow. Percy saw Dumbledore watching him watching them, and looked away.

"Now Percy, although you will be here for the rest of the year, you won't be graded on your work," McGonagall assured. "You're simply here to ease you back into school life, and perhaps absorb what knowledge you can. You aren't expected to catch up for the entire year in these three months. You will resume your duties as prefect tomorrow, but only if you feel up to it. You have no obligation.

"Although you'll continue to room with the current sixth years, when they become seventh years, you will, of course, actually be taking your classes with a year behind yours. The password is currently 'Virtute et armis.' Your Healers have instructed us that you're to continue weekly check-ins with Madam Pomfrey--"

"I'm perfectly well, regardless of what they think," Percy interrupted, a scowl on his face. Everyone was always _fussing_. "Being in a coma for sixth months made me no worse for the wear."

"Percy, you haven't slept properly since you woke up," Arthur interjected.

Percy wrinkled his nose. "I'll sleep when I want to, Dad."

"Are you _purposefully_ not sleeping? Percy--"

"Perhaps this is a discussion for another time?" Dumbledore suggested. "These have been a very stressful few months. Professor McGonagall, if you would escort Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to the Hospital Wing, perhaps they could go over Percy's care with Madam Pomfrey themselves before they Floo out?"

Percy barely escaped being smothered by his mother before the three left, leaving him alone with Dumbledore and the phoenixes. As he tended to do now when nervous, Percy found himself tracing the shape of Tom's kiss on the back of his hand, rubbing the ink that refused to fade almost obsessively.

"You seem much more clear-headed than when we last spoke, if quiet," Dumbledore remarked. "Have you remembered anything more of use regarding our T.M. Riddle?"

The name made Percy's stomach twist with betrayal. Riddle wasn't _Tom_ to him anymore-- only the incubus was Tom to him-- but had still destroyed Percy's life as best as he could. "No," Percy said. He was exhausted, as much as he had ever been in the Dreamworld. Exhausted by tests, and by people who wanted him to be something he wasn't sure he was anymore-- exhausted by family visits, and Dumbledore demanding memories of him that he didn't want to give up.

"I urge you again to consider a Pensieve, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said after a moment's pause.

"Why?" The word left Percy's lips too sharply, more suited for a battle of blank verse on the Plains of William than a discussion in the headmaster's office. "For my memories of how he convinced me to give him my life and enable his resurrection?"

"Those, and your memories of the Dreamworld."

"No." Percy lifted his chin, hand flexing instinctively for the sword that he no longer carried. "As much as I can, I will help you, Headmaster. But those memories are mine."

"I realise you've experienced some trauma--

"Do you?" Percy laughed, suddenly struck by how amusing this conversation was. He would have given anything a year ago to have Headmaster Dumbledore want something from him as much as he did now. He had wanted a chance to be in Dumbledore's good graces, so that he could be Head Boy and move ahead, the best in the school. He had a five-year plan that ended with him already having had a promotion or two in the Ministry, with his own house and no relatives bothering him. Now, all he wanted to do is go back to sleep and see Tom when he did.

" Do you know what it's like to be burned alive over and over and over again because a nation of democratic pigs-- and that's not a euphemism, thank you very much-- is trying to teach you a lesson, with the blessing of the phoenix who is supposed to be your mentor? Do you know what it's like to kill two men by shooting them with a sword?" he asked, locking eyes with Dumbledore. He could see it in his mind's eye, Richard and Junior in the phoenix grove. "To fight a war in the oceans of Mars, which makes no sense since Mars doesn't _have_ oceans and even if it did, how would a Frog King possibly transport you there? To live by yourself for months in a trade-city, where dreams congregate-- to meet Dark Elves in the Drethazi mountains-- to wait for a thousand and one days by a door that refuses to open-- to fall in--"

He stopped there and closed his eyes, since all he could see and feel was Tom's hand on his cheek, feel the whisper of the incubus' true name in his ear.

Dumbledore was silent, and so was Percy, remembering everything.

"Let's discuss this another time. I'm sure that your brothers will be pleased to have you back in Gryffindor," Dumbledore said.

"Of course," Percy said, though he rather doubted it. He got to his feet. "Thank you for allowing me to come this year." He bowed shortly and left, Jeanne following.

 

* * *

 

 

The entirety of Gryffindor House seemed to be congregated in the common room when Percy arrived. There was no way to make a graceful entrance, especially since Fred and George set off firecrackers over his head, Ron kept clapping him on the shoulder, and Ginny had attached herself to him like a limpet.

"Yes, well," Percy blustered, trying to shake glitter from his hair. The firecrackers had apparently been full of it, and in addition to a spark and a bang, they had also released a good load of glitter all over his shoulders. "Nice to see you."

"That's really all you can come up with, Percy?" George admonished, waggling a finger in a fair imitation of their mother.

"We were expecting tears!" Fred added. "Joyous recitations of your love! Possibly a swoon at the sight of your beloved family's faces!"

Percy started to turn red at their mocking, feeling his shoulders go up. They always needled him until he was just next to hexing them. Did they really have to start in--

 _People can tell when you think poorly of them,_ Jeanne said, softly, as she alighted from his shoulders. Glitter fell out of her feathers as she swept up the staircase into the dormitory, presumably seeking out his bed, where a perch had been set up for her. She wasn't one to consort with owls in the owlery if she didn't have to.

Percy remembered her saying the same thing more than once before, and he clearly remembered being burned at the stake for it. He sighed. "Did you really expect that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The twins gave each other concerned looks, then swooned themselves. "He made a joke!" Fred exclaimed.

"We must inform the Healers!!!"

The two turned as if to run and managed to crack head-long into one another. Percy sighed and turned his attention to his youngest sibling. "How has your first year been, Gin?"

She smiled up at him, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Good. The girls and I have lots of plans for next year."

"Oh wonderful." Percy made a face, since Ginny got into quite enough trouble by herself, much less with help. "You made friends, then?"

She was about to answer when Fred gave a loud, "AHEM!" He was standing on one of the red armchairs, feet firmly planted on the cushion. "As you can all tell, our beloved brother--"

"--never thought you liked him much--" Percy heard Lee Jordan mutter from beside George.

"--has returned from his months-long nap! Naturally, we take this excuse to have a party, which he can't tell us off for since he isn't officially a prefect again until tomorrow! Rejoice!"

A cheer rose from the entire House. Percy tried not to take that as them cheering for the fact that he wasn't a prefect again quite yet. Somehow, kegs of butterbeer rolled out, and food appeared as quickly as if conjured. Percy found himself clapped on the back by Gryffindors, who shoved food into his hands, gave him a flagon of butterbeer, and largely forgot about his existence after Ron started off what had to be the most dramatic wizarding chess tournament that Percy had ever seen, complete with cursing that would have made Molly wash his mouth out with soap.

Percy slipped back out through the door and into the hallways. It wasn't late, really, but the students seemed to have retired to their own common rooms, likely to gossip about Percy if Percy knew anything about the Hogwarts' student body. He found himself tracing the familiar path from Gryffindor House to the Astronomy Tower, absently drinking the butterbeer as he went. Percy had often whiled away the hours after patrolling by studying in the Astronomy Tower, and he needed the solitude now. He had forgotten what it was like, to be here.

The walk up the Astronomy Tower was a long one, and tiring. Percy welcomed it. Getting in exercise at St. Mungo's had been difficult, in between all of the tests and trying to catch up on some of the work he had missed. He could feel his muscles strain in a way they never had in the Dreamworld, the floor hard under his feet and the uncompromising stone shaking his bones with each step he took. The paintings whispered as he past, and even without the other students around, Percy could heard the gossip follow him.

There was no way they could possibly know the truth, and they probably never would.

Finally at the tower's peak, Percy sat in one of the ledges and looked down, over the ground. The lake was shining in the moonlight, covered in patchy ice and snow. The lightest breeze was stirring the snow into cyclones by the shore, as if a careless hand was making wind into magic. It sounded like something Tom would do, a heedless gesture forming roses out of dirt.

Percy stretched a hand out over the open air, the breeze blowing back the sleeve of his robe. If only this was the Dreamworld, then if he stepped off the tower, he would fly.

"You okay, Perce?"

Percy clenched his hand and drew it back, standing up from the window before he turned around.

Oliver Wood, affable and almost as badly freckled as Percy, despite being far blonder, was looking at him with concern. Percy shook his head. "Perfectly fine," he said, trying to gather himself together. "Wishing I had a book-- I've got quite a lot to catch up on."

Oliver laughed, though the expression of worry didn't budge. "Yeah, but you've got next year, they say. You left the party awfully quick." His Scottish brogue sat heavily on the words, but it was still more comprehensible than Professor McGonagall's was on her bad days.

Percy shrugged. "I've never liked parties." Hoping that Oliver would take the hint and leave, Percy instead got to see as Oliver sat on one of the loveseats that were kept here for Astronomy classes. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It's nice to see you again, Percy," he said frankly.

"Oh." Percy blinked, feeling flustered. "I… thank you. I'd rather assumed no one would miss me."

"Probably most people don't." Well, he was honest, at least. "You've been pretty strict."

"Thanks for that!" Laughing, Percy settled back down onto the stone, his back to the open air. The year since he had seen Oliver last had treated him well. Although they were in the same year, they hadn't had much to do with one another in the past. Oliver was involved in Quidditch, with the twins, and Gryffindor's losing streak had consumed him since Percy had first met him. Percy could still remember an eleven-year-old Oliver on the stands, yelling at Gryffindor team about their poor form while they were practising.

"Can't you move? You're giving me an attack of anxiety, your back to the gap like that," he said, gesturing toward the sheer drop behind Percy.

"There's not really too many other places to sit." During the winter months, the regular seating was brought inside or charmed with repelling charms unless they were actually used. The fact that Oliver had managed to find a bit of seating still out when class wasn't even in session was something of a miracle.

"Take the other half of the loveseat. I don't bite."

Percy regarded the small space somewhat suspiciously. "You never know. Maybe I do." Percy walked over to sit by Oliver nevertheless, ignoring the other boy's raised eyebrows. "I could have picked it up while I slept. Plenty of things certainly seemed to want to eat me there."

"What do you mean?"

In the face of Oliver's honest interest, despite not having intended to, Percy found himself telling Oliver the entire story. When he actually bothered to be still, the Gryffindor Captain was actually a good listener. He actually stopped and paid attention, his gaze on Percy serious, level, and honestly somewhat discomforting.

"So I waited. For a thousand and one days, by the Door to Waking. It might have been boring if not for the dark elves, who visited me every day, and Tom, of course."

"Tom?" The sudden stiffness in Oliver's voice distracted Percy for a moment, who had been gazing into space. He met Oliver's eyes and realised just how close the two of them were, close enough that if it had been Tom, he would have gone entirely red by now. He could feel the warmth of Oliver's thigh against his knee, since he had turned to face the other boy at some point during his story.

"Someone I met, in the dream. But enough about my nocturnal adventures. How have classes been? And, I suppose, more to the point for you at least-- how's the season?"

Easily distracted by his favorite topic, Oliver immediately brightened and began an in depth breakdown of each team's scores, prospects, and a few shrewd guesses on the House Cup outcome at the end of the year. Percy hoped that he didn't mind, terribly, when Percy found himself falling asleep, one of Oliver's hands grasping Percy's knee while he gestured with the other the way his Seeker had dived for the snitch in the last match.

Percy, _thank Merlin, thank everything, thank--_

Percy _dreamed_.

The Door didn't so much open as it allow itself to be nudged aside, hinges broken from Percy's forceful passage back into waking some months before.

Tom was waiting.

 

* * *

 

 

The problem with trying to question Percy about his experiences in the Dreamworld, Harry realised, was that he could never _find_ Percy to be able to do so. For the past weeks since he had returned to Hogwarts, Percy had been almost impossible to find anywhere. If he was actually visible and present, he was usually surrounded by people, a distant look on his face or a book in his hand.

"It's not fair," Harry bemoaned in the Night Room. They had all gotten together to go through the class lists for next year, when they would be able to choose their own electives at last. "Doesn't he realise that I have questions?"

"That's probably why you can never get him alone," Draco pointed out, jabbing a quill in Harry's direction. He had been moody since his revelations a couple of weeks prior. Harry had barely seen him between Draco's meetings with Dumbledore, lessons with Perenelle, and hushed conversations with Professor Snape. He wasn't sure if he was ever going to get the whole story from Draco either, since Blaise had almost immediately shuffled his friend off to Dumbledore and sent letters to Louisa. Harry couldn't even get an answer about the whole Grey Lord business that Draco had been on about.

To be fair, though, Draco's life had gone through a bit of an upheaval since that conversation. It had been decided that he would not be going home this year, but would be staying with the Zabinis instead, since it had been deemed unsafe.

"Still." Harry looked down the list of electives again. Professor Flitwick had handed all the second year Ravenclaws the scrolls of class information, accompanied by a very stern talking-to on the virtues of not overworking oneself. He had seemed to send what appeared to be a particular glare in Harry's direction, not that it had dimmed Harry's enthusiasm any. Harry would, naturally, be taking fourth-year Arithmancy with Mandy and Padma, as well as third-year Ancient Runes. It was his last elective that was concerning him, since he wanted to take _all_ of them. Draco would be taking Divination and Ancient Runes, and had yet to decide on a third elective, and where he went, so did Crabbe and Goyle. Blaise hadn't even looked at his own list of electives yet, as far as Harry knew.

"It must be very difficult for him, being awake," said Luna. She had taken to accompanying them to the Night Room when they went on Harry's very few free evenings. Even though whatever Penelope had done seemed to have made the first year girls back off combined with Harry's own threats, Harry didn't trust it, and invited her to be with them as much as he could.

"What do you mean?"

Luna shook her head. "He wasn't finished yet, for all that he learned all he needed at the moment."

A knock came from the door at that moment. Harry and Blaise exchanged a guarded look; they hadn't gotten a visitor at the Night Room even once since they had taken it over in first year. "Come in," Harry called, setting down his quill and scroll.

Penelope burst through the door, curls bouncing, and trailed by a bored-looking Percy Weasley. Harry itched to grab the other boy and spirit him away somewhere where he could ask him questions until Harry's curiosity was sufficiently satisfied.

"Hello, Penelope. Percy," Harry greeted. The others followed with a dull chorus of "Weasleys" and "Clearwaters" as well as Luna's cheery, "Well met by moonlight!"

"We've arrived to help you with your class choices!" Penelope said, plunking down beside Blaise on the couch and making him budge up with an impatient flap of her hand. "The professors asked the prefects to help the second years. And I thought Percy could do with some more socialisation, so I dragged him along too, even though none of you are Gryffindors."

"Penelope," the other prefect said, words barely escaping through gritted teeth. Penelope raised one eyebrow at him, the kind of imperious, determined look that Harry had come to expect from her, and Percy fell silent. It was much the same with Harry when she coerced him to go watch Quidditch practice.

"We've mostly decided. How did you know where to find us?"

"Mostly isn't all the way!" Penelope smiled, patting Harry's shoulder. "And everyone knows where to find little Harry Potter and his court, if they want to. Anyway, I know you're in mourning that you can't take all of them."

Why would anyone possibly pay attention to where Harry was in his free time? Harry was just about to ask when he was interrupted--

"You look familiar." Startled, Harry turned to look at Percy. Percy, though, was looking at Luna with a furrowed brow.

"Oh, my father and I aren't often in town, but we don't live far from the Burrow," Luna said. She smiled up at him. Harry didn't quite trust the expression in her eyes, a glinting, whimsical kind of mischief. Percy's frown suggested that he didn't quite trust it either.

"As you like it," he said.

"Percy, talk to Harry about Arithmancy. He's already taking third year Arithmancy."

"Really?" Percy smiled, face easing into the warmer look with relief. "I'm quite fond of Arithmancy, you know. I'm very good at numbers. The twins think it's boring, but numbers never lie."

"Except sometimes they're invisible, or infinite, or--"

Percy shook his head. "They still obey the same rules. It's very comforting."

They all discussed the upcoming classes for some time, Penelope lauding Care of Magical Creatures to the extent that Draco agreed to sign up, and Percy's soliloquy on mathematics and music convincing Blaise to give Arithmancy a go where Harry's rapture over perfect circles and alchemical designs had failed.

"I don't even know how to fit more classes into my schedule, to be honest," Harry admitted. "I'm already taking extra classes-- Arithmancy, obviously, Earth Magic, Alchemy, and Potions Theory with Snape."

"Potions Theory?"

Harry nodded. It was the lie they had come up with, so that he didn't have to admit to taking Occlumency. "Yes, I asked Professor Snape if he'd be willing to teach me some of the theory behind potions that Muggleborns don't necessarily know."

"Clever." Percy's gaze drifted off.

Whenever conversation trailed away, the eldest school-age Weasley just ended up looking… sad, or confused, or wistful. Harry didn't know the other boy well enough to know if he had always been this way, and it had just been hidden by his self-importance, or if it was a  side effect of the Dreamworld.

"What was it like?" he asked. "The Dreamworld?"

Percy's eyes met his. "Odd," he said, "and wonderful. And awful. Everyone in the world is dreaming of something different."

"All the world's a stage," Luna said, grandiosely, but the words made Percy blanche.

"There was a place there," he said slowly, softer than Draco's rush of words as he attempted to convince Blaise to take Care of Magical Creatures with him. "It was called the Plains of William. Shakespeare had a big impact on the world, you know, and it shaped the Dreamworld as well. In the Plains, all of the plays converged, changed. Spoke their lines over and over."

"I always did like Shakespeare," Luna said. "I dream of it often."

"Perhaps you should try not to," Percy said abruptly, and then he didn't say anything more for the rest of the visit.

 

* * *

 

There was a final, freak snow storm in May that buried Hogwarts in piles and piles of clean white snow. Far off in Surrey, Harry was sure that Uncle Vernon was cursing until his face turned purple, wrapped up like an onion in layer after layer of clothes. Aunt Petunia would be standing by the window, worrying under her breath and fixing hot toddies for him with more whiskey than water, her hair a bit limper than normal since she was always more reluctant to fix her hair and gather herself together for the day when it was cold out. Harry, though, was part of the penultimate snow battle of the season.

"This is the battle that will decide the course of the war," he said gravely to his assembled troops. Their reddened faces were turned up to his, eyes wide with excitement and vicious grins on their lips. No one had enjoyed the trouncing that the Weasley twins had given them in early April, the last time that they had been able to have a snow fight. "It's been decided that this is going to be the final fight of the season, so we have to give it our all.

"Corner, Boot-- you're our best at deflecting, so do whatever you have to do to keep that bloody Finnegan from our wall."

Here, Blaise joined in: "MacMillian, Brocklehurst, you've got a knack for a good Incendio. You'll be melting snow under their boots, tripping them up, and all-round mucking up the works. Creevey--" Creevey was their sole Gryffindor, since the Gryffindor team hadn't wanted him. It hadn't taken Harry long to realise why, since the younger boy had a penchant for gushing about Harry being the "Boy Who Lived" and tripping over his own feet, but he was also small, and fast. "--you'll be sneaking about to steal their munitions. Make sure they never have enough, especially when they need it the most."

"Everyone else, you hold the front line," Harry ordered. "Do whatever you have to do. The Weasleys don't play honorably, and neither will we. We fight to win, and once we've won, we can write our own history. Are we clear?"

"Yessir!" the assorted Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and the sole Gryffindor and Slytherin, chorused.

Fred was standing across the battlefield, on the top of a fort the Gryffindors had prepared from packed snow. "Are we ready?" he bellowed.

"Counting down--"

"In five-- four-- three-- two--"

It was a bloody battle. Literally, since Mandy had managed to get a cut over her eye early on and it had only made her hit harder. Finnegan and Thomas cornered poor Creevey, who was only able to escape by tying their laces together and sending a Tickling Hex at them. Harry ended up pinned down by the twins, but was saved gloriously by Anthony swooping down with the cavalry. A smoke potion broken at their feet enabled him to confuse the Gryffindors enough that Harry's side was able to take over the Gryffindor stronghold with time to spare, the Gryffindors knocked out, tied up, or cursing in ways that their parents most certainly would not approve of.

"Do you concede?" Harry asked Fred and George, lifting his chin in his best imitation of Draco.

George scowled and began a hushed fit of whispering in Fred's ear. Fred nodded rapidly, squinting for a moment, and then spoke: "We, Gred and Forge Weasley, as rulers and overlords of the Gryffindor Team, do concede the snow war for this 1993 year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, on the grounds that Master Potter is willing to teach us that Feather Explosion Spell, because that was bloody brilliant. Do you accept these terms?"

Harry grinned, feeling somewhat cheerily that Fred and George weren't so bad after all. "'Course," he said, reaching down to shake hands with them both. As one, they pulled him into an exuberant hug, patting his back and sending clouds of snow billowing over his head.

As they all began righting their clothing and talking to one another about the dread tricks, clever maneuvers, and assorted brilliance that had occurred on the battlefield, Harry watched as a large, silver carriage made its way up the long dirt road that ran through town of Hogsmeade, past the Hogwarts School train stop, and straight to the front door of the castle. He knew already that the carriage contained Tom Marvolo Riddle and Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He was in no hurry to make his way inside. Despite having sent Riddle a polite refusal, on the grounds that studying for exams would take up too much of his time during this part of the year, Harry knew that Riddle would seek him out anyway, one way or the other.

"Why are they even here?" he asked Blaise, who had noticed the direction of his gaze and had come over to stand with him.

"Mother says that they're creating problems about whoever Dumbledore is trying to hire next year," Blaise said, in the same quiet undertone. "We had best head in."

Exam time being only a month away, it was not actually that hard for Harry to bury himself in books in the library until dinner time, which is what he did. Everyone joined him, though, which made it somewhat less than ideal. Most of the people from the snow war decided that it was time to study, as did Hermione, Luna, and a few others who hadn't wanted to get bashed in the face with ice, but who did seem to like talking to Harry about exams quite a bit. It was very different from last year, where he had been lucky to have even Blaise and Draco as friends.

And he was lucky still to have Blaise and Draco as friends, but he was even luckier to have such a large group of people set on arguing with him about Defense (Anthony), correcting him in Transfiguration (Hermione), asking him questions about Arithmancy (Mandy and Padma), musing about dreams to him (Luna), and sticking cold snow down his back to get his mind off his worries (Fred).

So many things could change in a year. Draco was quieter and harder-edged, and a billion people now surrounded Harry constantly, but some things didn't change. Harry knew it as surely as he knew that Blaise would be at his side next year, come what may.

Under Madam Pince's irritated eye and angry grimace due to the volume coming from Harry's corner, Percy swept into the library. He adjusted his tie as he scanned the crowd for Harry's dark head and green eyes, deliberately pushing his sleeves up and straightening the clip of his pocket watch at his side. He paused when he finally found him, framed between two red-headed Weasleys and with Blaise's shoulder lined with his, before heading over. Since Harry had been expecting something like this, he watched as Percy approached.

"Professor McGonagall asked me to bring you to Dumbledore's office," he said, leaning down so he didn't have to speak over Padma and her sister Pavarti's squealing as Lee Jordan chased them with his tarantula.

"Did she say why?"

Percy shook his head. "Minister Fudge wants to meet you, I believe. You're lucky, meeting the Minister. He's got a hand in all the politics in the wizarding world in England-- it's very--"

"Dull?"

"Horrid?"

"Atrociously uninteresting?"

"Boring beyond belief?"

"Likely to make you cry?"

"--interesting, since so many of our government's choices depend on him." Percy shot his brothers a baleful look. "Come with me, please."

Blaise's hand pressed against his briefly before Harry slipped away, and the touch stayed with him as they left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver has mad game, not that Percy is up to noticing right now. And yes, this is unlikely to come up, but when Percy made eye contact with Dumbledore, Dumbledore was reading his mind.
> 
> I was noticing while I was tracking the updates I've made so far this year that I've really been slacking. In between focusing on Rocket Queen for the first few months of the year, working on Dream Quest in the middle, and just plain trying to sort myself out for these last few months, updates have fallen by the wayside. But hopefully we're back on track!


	24. [Year Two] Rip, Tear, Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year winds down, and everyone, unfortunately, has to part ways again.

Harry went up the winding staircase to Headmaster Dumbledore's office with no small amount of trepidation. At his side, Percy just looked bored. He clearly had no idea that Riddle had come to the castle with the Minister, since Harry imagined that seeing the man who had been the cause of his coma would have a different reaction.

"Did Dumbledore say if anyone had come with the Minister?" Harry asked, trying to slow down his steps so that he could give Percy some warning.

Percy shook his head. "I'm not sure, though I believe that Minister Fudge generally makes his visits alone."

"But someone must have told you who his new assistant is--"

Several steps above them, Tom Riddle opened the door to the Headmaster's office. Percy stopped, nearly knocking Harry down with the abruptness of it so that Harry had to grab the wall for balance. He looked up to see Riddle's cool, welcoming smile, with barely the flicker of a glance toward Percy. Then, though, he did a double-take, eyes narrowing cruelly before he managed to smother it under polite interest. There was no question in Harry's mind that Riddle had recognised Percy, and hadn't been expecting him.

The Weasleys had managed to keep Percy's awakening away from the papers for the time being, though Harry expected that any day now there would be the headline of WEASLEY BOY MYSTERIOUS AWAKENING?!?! Whatever resources that Riddle had didn't seem to include the Healers and Mediwizards and -witches of St. Mungo's.

"Harry," Riddle said, so smoothly that it was as if he never saw Percy. "A pleasure to see you once more. And who is your friend?"

"Percy Ignatius Weasley," Percy introduced. The shocked look had been wiped clean from his face and what replaced it was an expression that Harry had never seen on him before. His lips were set firmly, eyes flat, and nose crinkled just slightly beneath his glasses. The last time Harry had seen a look of such hatred, it had been coming from Uncle Vernon. "A pleasure, Mr. Riddle."

Riddle blinked, then said mildly, "Oh, have we been introduced before?" He stepped back, gesturing back into Dumbledore's office. "Come in, boys. Come in."

Percy advanced the last few steps beside Harry. Harry could see his hand slip into his robe pocket, fingers shaking. "Oh, of course not. The word 'introduction' implies a third party, introducing one person to another. I've _read_ a great deal about you, though."

Riddle's face went as hard as Percy's before he changed it into a pleasant smile. "Oh, certainly. I have put out a few articles. I heard you were in a coma, however."

As the two boys entered Dumbledore's office to find the Minister and Dumbledore locked in a heated discussion, Percy shook his head. "I was only asleep. Dreams are very interesting magic, especially when the reason you enter them is due to being near death."

"Oh?"

"But I don't want to overstay my welcome. I'm meant to be patrolling for students out of bounds. Headmaster, do you need me?"

The Headmaster smiled at them, waving a hand at the door. "Oh no, Percy. Feel free to leave. You've done all I required of you."  
Percy's eyes moved deliberately from Headmaster to Riddle and back again. He looked no more impressed by Dumbledore than by Riddle. "I'm sure. Good day."

Percy spun sharply, back as ramrod straight as Aunt Petunia's at her angriest as he headed back down the stairs, shutting the door behind himself with a click. Left alone with the three older men, Harry glanced over them. Cornelius Fudge had a weak mouth, but his eyes were shrewd and his pursed lips showed that he was irritated by whatever issue had brought him here. Tom Riddle, charming and handsome, had a pleasant, completely unknowable expression on his face. Dumbledore seemed affable enough, but his eyes tracked Riddle rather than the Minister, and the wrinkles around his eyes appeared to have increased tenfold.

"Headmaster Dumbledore. Minister Fudge," Harry greeted, keeping his head up as he bowed shortly. The etiquette lessons that Draco had been pushing on him echoed in his ears as loudly as if the other boy himself was shouting at him. Harry was sure that he would have been happy about Harry's decorum.

"Harry, my boy! A pleasure."

Harry flinched a little. The boisterous greeting as Fudge cracked him on the back seemed kind enough, but the man had ignored every bit off Pureblood etiquette. It was no wonder that he was considered a Moderate in the current political clime. Draco had said that Fudge was easy to manipulate, but without tact or any true backbone, and utterly contemptible.

"Of course, Minister," Harry murmured, then gave his attention to the two more powerful men in the room: Riddle and Dumbledore.

"Mister Riddle has requested the opportunity to speak to you in my inner office while I discuss a few matters with Minister Fudge. I am confident you will enjoy each other's conversation, however short you have." In short, Dumbledore had his hands tied for one reason or another, perhaps due to Fudge's interference, but he didn't think Riddle would kill Harry.

"Of course, sir," Harry said, schooling his expression into mild pleasure as his mind whirred like the finest-running machinery. "I'm glad to talk to Mister Riddle. A break in studying for final exams is welcome."

Riddle grinned, gesturing Harry forward to a door that seemed to have sprouted in one of Dumbledore's walls, leading to a more private office area. Harry proceeded him, ears full of Whisper's hushed, worried hissing and wishing that Surana wasn't still shadowing Draco.

The door closed. "Mister Riddle--"

"Just Riddle, please," Riddle interrupted. "I prefer my surname."

"Okay. I was wondering what you wanted to discuss with me." Harry shuffled on his feet as Riddle gracefully sat behind Dumbledore's desk, his curls dark against the Headmaster's neon décor.

"Do you?" Riddle's eyes flashed, glinting like an animal's in the shadows of the room. "You didn't want to speak to me earlier. I was hurt."  
"Sorry. Exams, you know." He tracked as Riddle tapped on Dumbledore's desktop, fingers tracing over papers as words, etched in ink.

"I accept your apology," Riddle claimed benevolently. "Your ideas about ley lines and the Three Lords intrigued me when we met. My article itself, which we spoke of, was solely about the legends of the Lords and a speculation on how they tied to the flux of magic in the British Isles. Your suggestion was that the ley lines might provide anchor points for the Lords, or might otherwise be linked to them."

"It was." Harry wasn't sure where this was going, but as Riddle leaned forward, he suspected that he wasn't meant to catch the naked excitement and interest in the older man's gaze.

"It made me think, if the Three Lords do exist, how might they be chosen? Are they chosen? Are there numerous potential Lords throughout history, and how do they become true ones? Was Grindelwald true or potential? And then I began to wonder if this had anything to do with ley lines in some way, since you must be right-- the two must, naturally, be linked, if the Three Lords are tied to magic, and ley lines are the lifeblood of magic. Do you have any thoughts?"

"I would have to research it." Harry blinked. Working under the supposition that the Three Lords existed and did have the posited connection to magic, and assuming there hadn't been true Lords any time in recent history, there must be an actual event that pushed one from being a "potential" Lord to being a "true" Lord. Study topics would likely include the legends of Sleeping Kings that always appeared in connection to the Three Lords, additionally referred to as a "King Under the Mountain," which had further implications in regards to dwarvish history--

"If you do, would you consider owling me?"

"Of course," said Harry politely, promising nothing. "I rarely say no to research, especially of this--"

"Riddle! We're leaving!" Fudge said, bursting through the door.

They left, Harry was questioned by Dumbledore about the nature of their conversation, and then Harry left, but he couldn't stop mulling it over, examining the encounter from every angle.

The bones of the ghosts had been burned on Halloween, before Harry and Riddle had ever met, before Percy had awoken, before Quirrell had left. Draco had said it was because Riddle thought Harry was a Grey Lord, and he didn't want Harry to have access to his ghost army, a historic attribute particular to the Grey Lord.

But why had Riddle ever thought Harry was a Grey Lord to begin with? And what was Harry missing about Voldemort's resurrection? Something important about souls…?

At the very edges of his hearing as he headed to the Ravenclaw common room, Harry thought he heard a soft, muttering voice say from somewhere over his head, with no more eloquence than Whisper's fretful little voice: _"Must listen to Master! Rip, tear-- free…!"_ But he didn't think much of it, too consumed with his own problems, and the voice seemed to be heading further and further away regardless, almost as if it was following Riddle as he got into his carriage, one foot on the step and a cold smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Sleeping wasn't a restful matter for Percy lately. He didn't get peaceful solitude or rest from it, though it restored him all the same. Instead, it was the simple matter of stepping through a doorway, into another life. When he fell asleep that night, he walked through the Doorway and found himself in the Den of Ill Repute in Plarr. As they had done on the occasional night prior, he and Tom were having dinner at their table in the front.

"He doesn't want to make it seem like he knows me," Percy said. Tom's fingers were locked around his wrist, absently stroking over the fragile bones and thin skin, his fingertips rubbing along the shape of his kiss, etched indelibly on the back of Percy's hand.

"That might be an advantage for you. He probably thinks you don't remember him either." Tom took a careful bite of his pomegranate and goat cheese salad, which was curiously concrete in a world of shifting perceptions and changing scenery.

"I'm not sure if I gave that away or not," Percy admitted, a wry smile on his face. He looked out the window at the people. A couple of ships had just docked in the port, and the men appeared to now be on leave. They careened up the streets, hooting and hollering and wolf-whistling at the girls. "I wasn't pleased by the ambush."

"You have to be careful around him." Tom's hand tightened, drawing Percy's attention back to him. "As an incubus, we… know certain things about those whose shape we assume. Inhabiting someone's skin allows for certain powers. He isn't to be trusted."

"I know that." Percy had said yes, after all, had agreed to be a sacrifice to Voldemort's resurrection, because he was stupid, charmed by a brilliant boy and so sure that nothing could go wrong. Of course, he hadn't quite realised that for his Tom Riddle to live, he would have to die.

Percy leaned back in his chair, frowning as he thought. It was possible that Tom had a certain... necessary insight into Riddle, if what he had said about assuming his form was true. "If you were him, what would be your next move? You've taken a job with the Minister, and Ministry officials who support Muggle rights are gradually disappearing."

Tom looked down at their clasped hands, eyebrows furrowing. "Perhaps… an event, a spectacle of some sort, to make me seem to be a more viable candidate than the current Minster. He seems to be following the structure of your government, more or less-- trying to work within it. It might take some time for him to arrange, but I believe he's trying to clear a path to becoming Minister."

That didn't sound good, to say the least. "Dumbledore is trying to convince me to create a Pensieve and give him access to all my memories of Riddle in the diary, and of you."

Tom's grip tightened around Percy's. "Are you ashamed?"

"No. And maybe yes.'" Percy didn't want to lie, not to one more person. "Not of you. Of me. Of what it means that I allowed him to seduce me, that I allowed an incubus to seduce me after that." Tom's smile grew hard-edged in the dying light of the sunset over the docks, his eyes more knowing than Percy would have liked.

"And in addition to being just a touch ashamed, you also think that they'll believe you're insane, falling in love with an incubus."

"I never said that I loved you."

Tom didn't respond to the too-quick reply, staring into his eyes until Percy looked away. "I'm worried," Percy clarified quietly, "that if they don't think I'm insane, they'll try to stop me from coming here. Or they'll kill you."

"Aw, how sweet." Though Tom's tone was mocking, the gentleness of his hand and eyes made Percy smile at him fleetingly, eyes trailing over Tom's classic face. Having just seen Riddle, the difference between the incubus-Tom and Riddle were even more apparent. Riddle was a bit rounder-faced and his hair was straighter, his eyes a different color entirely and his chin more pointed.

"How does it work, the way you look?" he asked suddenly.

Tom's face twitched at that, lips quirking up and brows rising. "Curious at last, are you?" he purred. The low, intimate tone sent a shiver through Percy's body, sounding through him as surely as if he was a rung bell. "Want me to look like someone in particular?"

Percy gave Tom a severe look that he had copied from Professor McGonagall. "No. I want you to look however you want to look." For some reason, that caused Tom to tilt his head, his lips flattening out into a thin line. "Is that so strange?"

After a moment of his fingers tapping on the tabletop, Tom said, "An incubus' appearance is dependent on the person viewing them. You wanted no one so much as Riddle, so I looked like him." The words were clipped, a bit stilted, almost as if Tom was jealous of Riddle. Percy linked their fingers together, grip tight.

"But now I want you."

"If only you were so free to admit it in the World of Waking," Tom mocked softly, but his hand on Percy's was just as gentle as his voice. "You expect me to look like this now that you've gotten to know me, so it shapes my appearance. Some things slide, change. The eyes, the shape of my face. I don't have a real appearance of my own, so this form is as good as another."

Percy rose half-up in his seat, reaching out to touch his face, the curve of the cheek as smooth as if it were chiseled from marble. "I didn't see Riddle that often in the diary, so I never imagined him quite right. I thought at one point that he looked like the statue of David come to life, but he doesn't, not as much as you do."

Tom dropped his chin, pressing a kiss to Percy's palm. His breath was hot, lips warm and dry. Percy's breath caught as he looked at that sweep of black curls and blue eyes. Tom looked up at him through his eyelashes wickedly. "You're waking up," he said, his exhale lingering on Percy's skin.

"Cruel," Percy pointed out, and then ducked his head so that he could kiss the other boy before he had to go. He moved his hand to the back of Tom's neck, gripping it tightly so he could feel the flex of muscles as Tom pushed up against him.

"One of the things you love about me," Tom said airily, once their lips parted. "Think of me as you watch the children prepare for their exams."

"Don't remind me," Percy grumbled. He wished that he were taking the exams, but as it was, he hadn't been able to catch up in enough time. He had only been able to stay focused on the actual world around him rather than his own thoughts and memories as of recently, and though it was better every day since he had started sleeping again, he wasn't quite back to normal. Leaning down once more, he rested his forehead against Tom's. His hair was still shorn in the Dreamworld, so there was nothing to get in the way of Tom's skin against his skin, Percy's lips almost brushing against Tom's cheekbone.

"Will you use a Pensieve, as Dumbledore asked?" Tom's breath fell against Percy's lips, the ghost of a kiss.

"I'll think about it." Percy nosed the other boy's cheek, leaning forward the final amount to kiss Tom's cheekbone. "I'll miss you when I'm awake," he admitted. His last sight before he was pulled from Plarr to the Door of Waking was a pleased look on Tom's face, like the cat who had gotten into the cream.

 

* * *

 

The year finished in a whirl of studying, activity, and constant, low-level worry. Harry not only had to worry about his exams, but finishing multiple end-of-year projects for all of his extra lessons, trying to accumulate resources about what might separate a "true" Lord and a potential one, and anxiously musing over Draco's entire situation regarding his family and the Dark Lord. He had cut off all contact with his parents, which seemed to have made him somewhat scattered, and letters between Louisa and the three boys flew back and forth almost faster than the owls could carry them. Harry just didn't have time to think about everything he needed to think about, from theoretical magic like the connection between the Lords and the ley lines, to practical magic like Occlumency, to individual people, like Percy and Draco. It made his head hurt, honestly, which is why when the exams were finally over and the year had ended, he was completely slumped over on the train heading back to the Dursleys with Surana around his shoulders like a scarf.

"It wasn't that bad," Blaise offered, once again. Harry cracked open an eye and shot him a bleary glare from beneath the dark fringe of his hair.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," Harry spat, "is a tremendous tosser."

The Defense Against the Dark Arts project that they had been working on for the first half of the year, until winter holidays, was graded on their group effort, and when one half of that pair was an idiot, it all went downhill. Justin's laziness had dragged Harry's grade down sufficiently that it had affected his end-of-year grade, and he was less than pleased.

"You still received an Exceeds Expectations." Luna patted his knee, her hand almost white against his school robes. "Chin up."

"Ridiculoussss boy," Surana said, but her  hissed voice sounded fond, and her shifting weight around his shoulders was calming.

"Does Sirs and Misses want anything?" asked Dobby. He wrung his hands, looking from face to face as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.

"We're _fine_ , Dobby," Draco said, more like a groan than actual words. Dobby's appearance was a new one. As they had been leaving Hogwarts, Draco had revealed that, amongst the other plans he had been making with the professors and Louisa, binding Dobby to him and him alone had been one of them. Since Draco was still the heir to the Malfoy estate and the Earldom of Aerie, it was possible for him to choose a specific house elf to be his vassal. Since Dumbledore had learned that Draco had used Dobby over the summer to contact Harry, they had apparently decided that Dobby needed to be removed from the Malfoy house. He had been working in the kitchens ever since, but now he would be heading to the Lavender House with Blaise and Draco.

Harry wasn't jealous that Draco got to go home with Blaise and he had to go stay with the Dursleys for a bit. He _wasn't_.

The scenery outside of the window was now city instead of green countryside, so they were likely approaching London. Harry shrugged off his robe and balled it up. He had exchanged his _subfusc_ for regular Muggle clothes before he left, for the sake of expediency.

There was a rap on the door and Percy poked his head in. "Approaching London, boys. Lovegood."

"Cheers, Percy," Harry said. Percy withdrew, but not a second later, two other red heads popped in.

"Harry!" Fred exclaimed.

"Harry, friend," George said, clapping Harry on the shoulder heavily.

"Harry, you put up a brave fight in our snow battles, but next year--"

"--next year will be different!"

"Interesting," Fred added.

"Exciting," clarified George.

"Full of danger, intrigue, and skullduggery! We will not lose the war next year, no matter how clever you are. We are cleverer!"

George frowned. "Is cleverer a word?"

"Who cares? If it is, we're it. If not, we're geniuses for inventing it."

They both nodded sharply.

Harry laughed. "See you next year. I look forward to it."

"Idiot Weasleys," Draco grumbled. "We should get changed."

They separated briefly to get changed out of their school robes, and then found themselves with little time to pack up and trundle to the front of the train to disembark. Harry kept getting stopped as they passed different compartments and groups, much to his bemusement. Between people greeting him because he had led the snow battles, older students taking notice of him because of his early start in Arithmancy, and his own year-mates, he found it oddly difficult to make his way out onto the platform and toward the barrier between Platform Nine and Three Quarters and the rest of King's Cross.

"Harry," said Luna on the platform as they looked for the boys. They had gotten separated in the midst of the crowd telling Harry goodbye as they left.

Harry looked up at her curiously. "Yeah?"

"Next year is going to be difficult." She smiled at him, but the expression was almost sad. "Try to be ready. Not every danger can be solved by books."

"Of course." He frowned, wondering what she was on about. She was always a little off, but this was more direct and more obscure at the same time.

"That being said…." She drew a book out of her bag and passed it to him. "I don't think you had time to research this."

He looked down at it and saw the author's name first: Amilius Thorpe. It was the author that Luna had recommended to Anthony early in the year, based on whatever book it was that he had been reading. The book was slender, perhaps two hundred pages of a thin paper, and bound in a grey-blue cloth with a hard spine. The title, in curving, gentle script was--

"Luna!" Harry's face flamed red and he hid the book in his school bag before anyone could see it. Surana immediately started up her hissing laughter in his ear. _The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name: Homoeroticism in Wizarding Culture, a History._

Luna giggled a little, hugging one his arms by winding both of hers around it. "Harry, no one will _mind_ , and if they do, they're not worth your time. Read it for knowledge, if nothing else. I think you need to know how wizards see love, in all its forms."

With some relief, Harry caught sight of Louisa and the boys. "Oh, there's Blaise.  Is your father here?" Laughing at him but not responding, Luna followed him over to the small group. As he went, Surana dropped down his side to fall into one of his sweater pockets, her weight making him lopsided.

"Harry!" Louisa held open her arms for him and he hugged her, feeling the soft sway of her curly hair against his cheek. "I'm so happy to see you!"

She smelled like vaguely musty lavender, the same way that the entirety of the Lavender House did, between the flowers and the owls. Harry relaxed into her after a startled moment of wondering at how long she was holding on. "I'm arranging with your aunt to take you to Italy again as soon as we can," she said as she drew back.

At that, Harry finally took note of who was standing beside her: Narcissa Malfoy, slender, tall, and pale, in a posh silk Muggle women's suit, and Aunt Petunia, not quite as pretty and a good bit shorter, but not-quite out of place despite that, with her thin, blonde looks toned down by a somewhat dowdy dress and the displeased look on her face.

"Aunt Petunia," he greeted cautiously.

"We're leaving," she said. Harry nodded, used to her abruptness, but he was still close enough to Louisa to feel her tense.

"Not quite yet." She drew Petunia to one side, leaving Blaise, Draco, Harry, and Luna alone with Lady Malfoy. Draco was standing very close to his mother, looking happier than Harry had seen him in a good long time.

"Lady Malfoy. I hope you're well," Harry said, bowing.

She dipped her head, pale eyes shining. "Yes, quite well. It turns out that I will be joining my son and Louisa in Italy. Louisa has agreed to let us stay for the foreseeable future."

Harry smiled, pleased. "I'm glad. I know he would have missed you if you were separated."

"Would not," Draco grumbled, but his closeness to his mother spoke for itself. Harry could guess how hard it must have been for Narcissa to leave her house, her husband, and do it all while Voldemort was actually _in the house_ with them. However she had even managed it to begin with astounded him, but he was happy for Draco nevertheless.

Petunia and Louisa came back over, Petunia's lips a thin white line on her face. "Let's go, boy," she said. Harry hesitated, looking over Draco and Blaise, Luna and Louisa. He would miss them. It was a bit easier to leave than last year. He knew that he would come back and see them again, that this wasn't some dream or wish gone wild, but thinking about separating--

"I'll see you soon," he said tightly, trying not to cry. He was being silly, he knew.

"Very soon," Blaise said, glaring at Petunia over Harry's head. He reached out and hugged Harry around the shoulders. His hug was even better than Louisa's, though perhaps a bit more surprising. Leaning against one another, sleeping in the same bed-- somehow it all seemed… less, than an embrace like this. The other contact could be incidental or casual, but this was intentional. Harry sank in for a moment, head dipping to brush Blaise's shoulder and breath shuddering out, before he pulled away.

"Hopefully," he said, with more of a grimace than a smile. He clasped arms with Draco, who was giving him and Blaise an unreadable look, hugged an amused Luna, and then they were off.

"You're… close to that Blaise boy, are you?" Petunia asked as they left Platform Nine and Three Quarters and wound their way through the throng in the rest of King's Cross.

"He's my best friend," Harry said longingly.

"It will be fine, Ssspeaker," Surana soothed, her voice muffled by his sweater. He dropped his hand down to caress her head, her skin smooth and cool under his thumb.

They left through the glass doors of the King's Cross entrance and onto the street. Petunia led the way, presumably to wherever she had parked.

"His mother is a fine piece of work."

"I think she's lovely," Harry defended, very quietly. Petunia gave him a sharp look, but said nothing more. That was well enough. Harry's body might be going with her to Surrey, but his heart was following Blaise, and his mind was somewhere in the Hogwarts' library, musing over ley lines. He wouldn't feel settled and complete until they were back at Hogwarts again, he just knew it.

As they passed the King's Cross St. Pancras Underground Station entrance, Harry heard a gleeful whisper from beyond the stairs down: _"Free! Rip, tear, kill-- stupid metal ssssnakes. I'll tear them all apart!"_

It was probably some random crazy. London attracted all sorts, after all.

 

**[End Year Two]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some new tags, and within the next few days (before the start of Year Three), I should have the finalized relationship tags up for the side- and temporary pairings.


	25. [Year Three] The Watcher on the Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's summer before third year starts with a bang.

_The history of the Three Lords affected so many different parts of wizarding history and culture that it is impossible to consider the Crucible Era without them. From the new relevance of the Dreamworld in modern society to the reformation of our criminal justice system and laws to our new understandings of how magic works and why, the Three Lords irrevocably stamped our history with their image._

_Similarly, the Three Lords were affected by what happened in the past. We now know that they could not have obtained their positions without a thorough understanding of Arthurian history as well as that of the original Three Lords and the Founders. We are truly lucky that the potential Dark Lords Grindelwald and Voldemort never pursued the same paths of study or found the same understanding as the Three Lords._

_\-- Nicolas Flamel, from his book,_ The Return of the Three Lords: A History of English Magic

 

* * *

 

The sun rose early over Little Whinging the day of Harry Potter's birthday. The thirteen-year-old watched it as it crested over the neat houses and perfect lawns, the garden fences and red tricycles, the prize-winning flowers and the barbeque grills. He watched as the man in the pointed hat, cloak, and thick dragon-hide boots watched him. The man stood on the street corner, just below the light, and smoked a cigarette in one of those holders that they always used in the old Hollywood romances that his aunt Petunia loved. He wore gloves, despite the heat that Harry could feel coming on even at this early hour, and his hands were very steady as he took drags from his pretentious cigarette and fingered something in his pocket that Harry knew was a wand.

Harry had been watched by a continuous rotation of wizards ever since he had returned to Surrey from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but he didn't quite know why. Perhaps it had something to do with the revelations of his last school year, when he had learned that there was a prophecy of some sort that meant he was supposed to kill the Dark Lord Voldemort, who had risen again and was living in the house of one of Harry's best friends, Draco Malfoy.

The wizarding world was in turmoil. Although only a few people knew that Voldemort had returned his presumed death, which had occurred when Harry was one year old, Voldemort hadn't spent the year idle. He had taken a position as the Minister of Magic's assistant under the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, had somehow managed to find and destroy the bones of the majority of ghosts in England, and had sent his lackey, Harry's former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, to find something for him, leaving the position open to be temporarily taken by Professor Perenelle Flamel, a famous dwarven alchemist along with her husband, Professor Nicolas Flamel, who himself was teaching History of Magic. All in all, it had been an eventful year, especially since this wasn't even getting into the fact that Voldemort's return had been powered by the life force of Percy Weasley, an older classmate of Harry's, and had caused his coma. He had apparently gone to a place called the Dreamworld while he slept and had woken late in the year, changed and mysteriously accompanied by a phoenix.

"Harry!" Aunt Petunia's voice was as sharp as the rap of her knuckles against the door. "Up!"

"I'm up, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, turning away from the wizard smoking on the corner. "I'll be right down."

On Harry's bed were two snakes, the two-foot long smooth snake Surana, who had been Harry's companion since he was ten, and the tiny Delicana snake Whisper, a magical breed who was unintelligent and functioned mostly as jewelry. Whisper let himself be picked up without complaint, but Surana slithered down the bed and beneath it, muttering direly under her breath about the heat.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Stop being so dramatic, Surana," he said quietly. Uncle Vernon had ears like a bat, and he didn't want his uncle wondering why he was talking to himself. Uncle Vernon didn't know that Harry was a wizard, and both Harry and Petunia wanted to keep it that way.

"It's too hot, Sssspeaker," Surana bemoaned.

"Try the closet." Harry pulled on a pair of dark trousers, which fit tolerably well. He still wasn't entirely used to clothes that fit, but his friend Blaise Zabini and Blaise's mother Louisa always insisted on taking him shopping whenever he visited their home in Positano. He tossed his pajama bottoms onto the bed, covering the crumpled newspaper that his owl, Demi, had delivered the previous night before disappearing into the tree outside to roost. The headlines were grim: **MORE DISAPPEARANCES: PROMINENT MUGGLEBORN BYRON JOHNS GONE MISSING** and **ATTACKS IN THE MUGGLE UNDERGROUND; WHOLE TRAINS GONE, TWO WIZARDS MISSING** and **SIRIUS BLACK STILL ON THE LOOSE** were some of the most prominent.

Whisper curled around his upper arm like a girl's armlet, and Harry put a flannel shirt on over his t-shirt so that the snake would be hidden. Then he slipped out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him even as he saw the flicker of Surana's tail disappear into the closet.

Once upon a time, Harry hadn't had his own bedroom, but had instead lived in the closet under the stairs. He had only spent part of last summer in this bedroom before leaving with the Zabinis to go to Positano, so it was still new to him in a way to have a real bedroom, unshared by anyone else.

"Ssleepy," Whisper said as Harry headed downstairs. "Ssspeaker good. Warm… Surana ungrateful."

Harry chuckled a little, reaching over his shirt to rub Whisper's head. "Thanks. Love you too."

The snake shifted a little, almost like a hug, and Harry took the last few steps almost silently. It was too early for Dudley or Vernon to be up, and he didn't want to change that.

Aunt Petunia was in the kitchen and quickly directed Harry to the bacon, whereupon she began cracking eggs into a bowl. Harry wordlessly took the spatula, watching as the early light caught the few strands of silver in Petunia's blonde hair.

"They're supposed to be coming today, for my birthday," Harry said. Her only response was the tightening of her shoulders. "What are we going to do?"

"I arranged for Marge's train to come in just before they get here. Dudley and Vernon will meet her at the station." Petunia whisked the eggs furiously. "Hopefully, you and your _friends_ will be gone by the time they all get here. Marge refused to take a later train."

"I'll make sure." Petunia hadn't asked, but Harry wanted, on some level, to please her. She was putting a lot on the line for him, even though she begrudged it. The clock on the wall ticked over to eight o'clock. The kitchen window didn't look out on the street, but Harry knew that if it did, the watcher on the corner would be switching. They were very regular about it.

"Yes, you will."

They finished preparing breakfast in an uncomfortable silence that Harry was all too used to. Soon enough, Dudley was thudding his way down the staircase and the sounds of Uncle Vernon's humming as he shaved drifted out of the loo.

"Morning, Mum. Freak."

Petunia pressed a kiss to Dudley's cheek and slid plate in front of him. He took the fork and knife up and began eating with haste, as if someone would take it away from him. His school, Smeltings, had been making noises about putting him a diet. He was about four times Harry's size, even bigger than Draco's friends Crabbe and Goyle.

"Morning, Dudders," Aunt Petunia said, her voice going soft and gooey as it never did when she spoke to Harry. "I'm going upstairs to talk to your father. Eat up, now." She patted him on the shoulder, glared at Harry, and made her way up the stairs. Dudley's eyes fastened on Harry's as he slowed his chewing. Harry didn't like that one bit.

Harry had spent less and less time with Dudley over the years, which was just to his taste. Until he was about seven, Dudley had been a terror. He and his group of friends had chased Harry all over the neighborhood, beaten him up in the school yard, and made sure that everyone at school knew that befriending Harry would lead to the same for them. About that time, though, Harry had found books. He imagined it was a bit like born-again Christians in those American documentaries finding God. The library was the one place that Dudley and his gang would never follow Harry, and would never think to look. Since Harry had started Hogwarts and Dudley had started Smeltings, they had spent even less time together, especially since Harry had left early last year.

"I heard you last night."

"…What?" Harry blinked rapidly. This was not the way he had been expecting Dudley's attack to go.

"Dreaming." Dudley sneered and stuffed another slice of bacon into his mouth. Grease coated his lips before he licked it away. "Having _nightmares_. Getting bloody loud, moaning about something called a 'quirrell' and some bloody big snake."

"Huh." Clearly, his Occlumency shields were slipping if this was the case. He had been making tentative strides at being able to ward his mind from slipping into Voldemort's when he slept last year, but he wasn't very good at it yet. He was tolerable when conscious, but only practice would strengthen his subconscious shields. Harry took a bite of his own toast-- dry, because they had run out of jam after Petunia had smeared it all over Dudley and Vernon's. "Thanks." He would have to practice more, if that was the case.

"What?"

Dudley's face began to screw up with anger. He always became angry when Harry didn't respond to taunts the way he wanted. Luckily, Petunia and Vernon were coming down the stairs, exchanging hushed whispers. Dudley let Harry off with a warning look, but Harry knew he wasn't done. It was fortunate that he would be headed to Positano by the end of the day.

After breakfast, Dudley and Vernon puttered around the house. Dudley was glued to the new telly on the kitchen table, and Vernon organized his liquor cabinet. Harry assumed that this was because he and Marge always drank a little more than they should when they were together, a fact which made Petunia's mouth purse and her eyes narrow. Aunt Petunia, Harry had learned through careful observation, didn't much like Aunt Marge.

It was only a couple kilometers to the nearest railway station, so the turn-around for the Zabinis to arrive without been noticed by the male Dursleys had to be fairly quick. Dudley and Vernon left at a quarter to. Harry finished packing rapidly and edged as close as he could to the front window, watching with his nose almost against the glass. Petunia watched from behind him, anxiously stroking her pearls. With a crack that Harry could hear faintly even from inside the house, Louisa and Blaise appeared just in front of the front garden. Louisa was as beautiful as ever, her warm brown skin sparkling with some sort of powder in the sunshine, and Blaise had, somehow, managed to get even taller. Harry was never going to catch up at this rate.

Harry had barely managed to get the door open before the Stunning spell hit them. "What?!" he dashed forward a bit, ignoring the-- "Stay back! Stop, damn you, for your own safety!"-- that tried to interfere. The Zabinis had frozen, as if stopped in time. Louisa's face was a mix of mild curiosity and disdain, carved delicately onto her features and frozen there, a touch awkward for the sudden cessation of movement. He drew his wand from his pocket and leveled it at the watcher on the corner, who had his own wand out and trained on the Zabinis.

"Get away from my guests before I call the Headmaster and tell him you used a Stunner on one of his students."

The man snorted, not moving an inch. "Dumbledore knows good and well what I'm doing," he said. His voice was gruff, broken, and matched his face perfectly. He had one mad, spinning eye that moved out of sync from his other eye. His face was covered in scars, and his balding hair was long, stringy, and unwashed. His pants draped awkwardly around one of his legs, as if it was not quite as full as it should be.

"I'm not sure you're being honest," Harry said firmly, "and you just cast a spell in front of a Muggle, which is against the law." He nodded over at his aunt, who was glowering on the front stoop.

"Get inside," she hissed. "What will the neighbors think?"

"Do you really want him in the house?" Harry hissed back, regretting intensely that Surana was upstairs instead of with him. "Take the spell off them!" he told the watcher.

"They pose a danger to you!" The watcher slashed his wand down, causing the bodies of the Zabinis to jerk forward. Harry had never seen such a thing once a spell was cast and it might have made his mind go off with curiosity if his close friends hadn't been paralysed. "They're Death Eaters!"

"He's my best friend, and I've spent years with them. Neither one of them is hiding Voldemort under their robes!"

Harry heard faintly over his shoulder, "Voldemort?" but didn't pay it much mind.

Harry wasn't going to have much of a choice. "Aunt Petunia, go inside and cover your eyes. The law is specific about underage wizards not performing spells in front of non-magic people." The watcher's one real eye began to widen and his glass one rolled forward in his head to look at Harry and match his real one.

"Now, there's no need--"

Petunia went back inside and closed the door. "I'll warn you one more time--"

"Ennervate."

When thought returned to Louisa Zabini's eyes, it was clear that she was as enraged as Harry had ever seen her. Her eyes went small, her gaze flat, and a sweet smile began to curve on her lips like she was one of those porcelain shepherdesses that Mrs. Figg down the street liked to collect. Blaise, meanwhile, didn't say anything, not even a greeting as he edged a bit in front of Harry, staring down the watcher with a lifted chin and a raised brow.

"Lovely to see you again, Moody," Louisa said. "Harry, we will have to say our greetings later. Would your aunt mind us going into her house for a moment?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't see how she can say no," he said, dubious. "She's not going to want a bunch of wizards and a witch standing in the middle of Privet Drive." They crossed the front garden and Harry opened the door, revealing an angry Petunia with her back to the staircase, arms crossed over her chest. As requested, she was not looking out the window to spy on them, which was actually rather nice of her.

"Would you and Blaise mind going to your room for a moment, Harry? I fear I'm going to be rather rude, and I wouldn't want you to have to hear it."

Harry's gaze slid between the three adults uneasily, and then he shrugged. "All right." He tugged Blaise's wrist and the two of them edged past Aunt Petunia and up the stairs. Before he even closed the door to his bedroom, he could hear the faint, biting whisper of "What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, Moody? On a Muggle street in the middle of Surrey?"

"If the neighbours saw--"

"You and your Death Eater son shouldn't be here, Zabini. I have half a mind--"

"That's right, you _do_ have half a mind. How unsporting of me to forget."

Harry closed the door and turned to Blaise, who was looking around curiously. Most of the room was still filled with Dudley's broken toys, untouched books, and cracked electronics, but in the midst of all of it was Harry's neatly-made bed, trunk, and carefully lined-up books.

"All the crud is Dudley's," Harry said, face flushing. "Hullo."

Blaise looked back at him with a little smile. He had shot up quite a bit and was almost as tall as his mum, his curls loose and messy all over his face. He was wearing black robes open over a t-shirt he must have gotten in Muggle London because it had The Doors on it, and the sight of his familiar face was making Harry perilously shaky. He hadn't seen anyone who didn't hate him since he had left school, besides his snakes, and somehow the face of a snake wasn't quite the same as the friendly face of your best mate.

"Hullo," Blaise said. His voice was a bit lower, huskier. "This was more exciting than I thought it would be."

"I've been watched. I think by Dumbledore, since I didn't recognise any of the known Death Eaters from the trial pictures taken during the war." Harry sat on his bed and absently lifted his hand to stroke down Surana's back as she flowed forward across the blankets.

Blaise snorted, leaning back against a pile of Dudley's boxes. "Oh, they're Dumbledore's all right. Alastor Moody is downstairs. They call him Mad-Eye-- one of the most vicious Aurors ever seen. They say he's killed more than one of the Death Eaters he was sent to capture rather than bring them in, and the only way the Lestranges managed to go to prison rather than their grave was that there were too many other Aurors around."

"Aurors?" Harry tried to place the word. It had come up a few times in his studies for history, but only in the more modern pieces. Modern history wasn't Harry's area of interest. He had read a novel about an Auror trainee as well, but he hadn't understood as much of it as he would have liked. The writing had depended on some wizarding cultural knowledge that he didn't quite have. The job involved fighting crime somehow-- that much was clear.

"Like the police for Muggles. The law enforcement for wizards is Aurors and Unspeakables, though Unspeakables mostly do foreign work."

Harry watched as Surana crept down the bed and across the floor to curl up Blaise's leg. "Ssssleepy boy," she was crooning, as if Blaise could understand her. "Missed you." Harry watched Blaise rub his thumb over Surana's fragile skull, a smile on Blaise's face, and was struck by how very much he hated living with the Dursleys. Being with Blaise just felt so… different, so comfortable in comparison to having to be on his guard at all times.

From beyond the closed door, he could hear Moody's voice rise: "I'm not going to let a known Death Eater and murderess swan in and take the Boy Who Lived from his home."

"'Known Death Eater'?" Harry winced at his aunt's familiar screech.

"I am _hardly_ a Death Eater and you know it, Alastor." Louisa wasn't yelling, but her voice was loud, and very precise. "I am a grey witch if there ever was one."

"Grey. With your deals with _demons_ \-- everyone knows--"

"As if you know anything about it. And what demon has ever held any allegiance to anything dark or light except by choice? A truly grey being, or at least with an allegiance that changes on a case-by-case basis." Her volume went down again and Harry couldn't, quite, make out what she was saying.

Harry realised that he was frowning. He had noticed that Louisa hadn't denied being a murderess, which was something that he had known and wasn't exactly comfortable with. The fact that she was a crossroads witch meant that her husbands were doomed to die unless she found true love. Whether she killed them or the demon she had made deals with killed them, Harry wasn't quite sure. That wasn't what was disturbing him, exactly, though.

"Why does Draco say that Voldemort thinks I'm the Grey Lord?" he asked.

Blaise froze. Harry had been wondering for months and hadn't been able to pin Draco down, and Blaise was no better on the subject. When Draco had mentioned it last year at school, he hadn't explained, and Harry thought it was strange that Louisa was mentioning now that she was a grey witch.

"I don't think that _now_ and _here_ is time for that discussion," Blaise said. His eyes were more serious than Harry had ever seen them.

Harry nodded. "All right, then. But I want my answer eventually."

"You _always_ get your answer eventually."

"My curiosity is my strong suit," said Harry grandiosely, making Blaise laugh. "So what have you been doing all summer? Draco and his mum liking the Lavender House all right?"

Blaise shuddered. "Lady Malfoy and Mother have been making wedding plans for her latest betrothed, who fortunately has remained out of sight and out of mind. I think Mother has finally decided that until they can survive the marriage, they don't need to meet me."

"Well… that's good…?"

Flashing him a grin, Blaise nodded. "It's better than the alternative. She needs to stop marrying the most boring wizards possible. Draco and I have been hiding out in the gardens as much as we can. I listen to music and he zooms around on his broom, and once it gets dark we head down the shore. There's a hidden cove that we found where we can play Quidditch or just escape our mums for a while. How have the Dursleys been?"

Harry shrugged, heading over to the loose floorboard by the bed to retrieve some of his more obviously magical devices that he hadn't wanted Dudley to snoop out. His trunk was secure for the most part, but Dudley didn't always know what was best for him when he was mucking about with Harry's things.

"Quiet. Dudley's dreadful, as usual, and Aunt Marge-- my uncle's sister-- will be here today. I'm happy to miss her." Harry remembered all-too-well Marge's tendency to constantly berate Harry, mock him, insult his parents, and set her dogs on him. He still hated dogs from when one of her most favourite had bit him several years ago. "Having Demi's helped, and not having Dobby taking all of my post. I've gotten loads of letters: you, Draco, Luna, Mandy and Padma of course, Penelope, Fred Weasley--"

"Fred Weasley?"

Harry blinked. "Yeah, since the snowball fights, he's been friendly." They had all participated in a snowball war during the last winter at Hogwarts. Harry and Blaise's team had won, of course.

"Just Fred, not George."

"Well, sometimes both, but mostly-- does it really matter?"

"Hmph. Just don't go liking them more than you like me."

Harry smiled at that. "Well anyone would be an upgrade over you, you tosser."

Blaise shoved him, lightly, and Harry very nearly gave into the impulse to touch his hand as he went. Blaise might not even find it odd-- they touched an awful lot at school, or had in the past, but somehow it seemed different now. It was probably Luna's fault. She had given Harry a ridiculous book about male lovers throughout wizarding history, and kept going on about the specifics of courtships in wizarding society in her letters. Harry had no idea how that conversation had started, but it was often easiest to go along with Luna when she started on something.

The thing was, Harry thought she might be right about him. Luna was mostly right about everything, which was one of the reasons Harry liked her so much, regardless of how odd most people found her. Harry didn't think he liked girls like that. He just wasn't sure if he liked boys yet either, and he wasn't about to admit it either way regardless. Besides, who cared about that kind of thing when there were books about to read?

The voices rose again: "I don't _care_ what you think! I have Petunia's permission to take Harry for the rest of the summer and I don't need your permission, regardless of what you may believe. Now stand aside, before I curse you with a third eye so that you have at least one more chance to see what a colossal fool you're making of--"

The next booming voice made Harry grow cold, blood draining as Vernon bellowed, "WHAT THE BLEEDING HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I updated the tags as promised. Percy/Oliver is not my endgame, but will be the pairing for this fic unless something has to change with the timing of certain events, etc. I'm currently working on the outlines for the Common Sense sequel, though (despite how far off that will be, lol) and that is definitely Percy/Marcus. Regarding Fred Weasley, it's barely a thing, to be honest, but since it's more than Harry's crush on Anthony, I felt it needed to be tagged.
> 
> Two lines of this were inadvertently taken from memory from Prisoner of Azkaban and Order of the Phoenix. "None of us are hiding Voldemort under our robes!" is similar to what Remus Lupin says to the Dementors on the train, and Dudley's line "I heard you last night" is from Order of the Phoenix about Harry's dreams post-Cedric.
> 
> If you missed the other two excerpts from The Return of the Three Lords, they are at the beginnings of Year One and Year Two, so the first chapter and chapter nine.


	26. [Year Three] Homefront

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon finds out. So does Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a culture shock/mild xenophobia, panic attack of sorts, brief suicidal thoughts, and domestic abuse (no one hurts anyone physically).

Harry wasn't sure if he should leave his bedroom, or dare to move at all. Blaise was giving him concerned looks, but all that Harry could do was think of the many different ways this could go. He had never known whether Uncle Vernon had even the slightest idea about the kind of family that he had married into, though some of the comments Petunia had made over the years led him to believe that Vernon had enough knowledge to be happy that Harry wasn't a wizard. If that was the case, learning about the willful deception that Harry and Petunia had undertaken would likely send him into a crashing rage at best.

"Who are these _people_ , Vernon?" came Marge's gruff, almost mannish voice.

"Oh…." There wasn't a word in any book Harry had ever read that was vile enough for what was happening right now. Harry looked at Blaise, whose eyes were wide. "Marge is here."

"Who is Marge?"

"Aunt Marge. My uncle Vernon's sister," Harry explained. He eyed the window, contemplating whether the best course of action would be to slip out before the adults caught up. Louisa would be more than willing to handle it for them. The only problem was that it seemed rude to leave Aunt Petunia to face this mess alone. Instead, he cracked open the door to better hear what as going on.

"Vernon, please. They're just leaving-- people from Stonewall, you know." Petunia's voice was almost calm, but far quicker than it should be. Harry could picture her green eyes wide in panic, but her hands steady as she went to soothe the situation somehow, whether it was taking Marge's bag or stroking Vernon's arm.

"I think she's lying, Vernon." Marge's voice was loud and smug, volume high enough that it could be heard throughout the entire house.

"The man is from the school; the woman is his friend's mother who took him last summer. They wanted to take him away again, but… Moody here, suggested that Harry attend summer school. You know how stupid he is-- no surprise, of course--"

Here, Blaise snorted loudly. "Do they know you at all?" Harry hushed him, but Blaise continued in an undertone: "I'd be willing to bet that Mother is giving them a _look_ right now. Honestly, you, stupid? They clearly have no idea."

If that was the case, Louisa was wisely holding her tongue. Moody, unfortunately, had no such compunction.

"Stupid? Harry Potter, stupid? I can tell you that I've heard an awful lot of things about this boy, but stupid is a new one."

"And who are you to know that?" Marge asked, a sneer in her voice.

"Alastor Moody," was volleyed back. "And I don't need to know the boy to tell he's brilliant. Figured out the watch schedule, didn't he? Could tell he knew not only that he was being watched, but also knew better than to say anything. Only bad thing is his association with this lot. A lord of the Potter line, associating with dark witches and demon-children!"

"Dark witches?" Aunt Marge questioned dimly, but was quickly overwhelmed by Vernon's roar: "We swore when we took him in that we would stamp out that garbage, that _deviance_. He turned eleven, didn't he? And he didn't go to the school, did he? Why-- what--"

"That's-- that's the thing, Vernon. He…."

Her voice was so quiet after that Harry couldn't hear how she finished her explanation, but he definitely heard the wordless outrage in Vernon's voice as he called up the stairs, "BOY!!!"

Harry started to open the door further, but Blaise pulled him back. His eyes were dark, face paling behind the strong tan he always picked up after he spent time in Italy. "Don't. Mother will handle it."

"Mr. Dursley, I'm afraid I don't like your tone." Louisa's cool voice was a balm after the anger of the others, her Italian accent clinging over the words like moss against stones. "Nor do I like the way you talk about Harry."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Zabini, for once," Moody said gruffly.

"Fortunately, Harry will be coming with me, so he won't have to put up with this attitude from you."

"That I do disagree with."

"Get _out_ of my _house_!" Uncle Vernon shouted. It was as if swearing had failed him and all that he had left was rage, seething under the surface. "BOY!"

Blaise had to grab him by both arms to keep him from bolting down the stairs. It was only going to make it worse the longer he stayed away. When Vernon became angry, there was no real way to calm him down except to face him and let it roll over you. "Blaise…."

"W-w-w-wizard," Dudley was gibbering. "Does he have magic, like on the telly? Is he going to hurt us?"

"Petunia, you can't be serious. I always knew you were a foolish woman-- just like Vernon to pick the dreck from the gutter and expect it to shine, but--"

Harry twisted out of Blaise's arms and walked over to the head of the staircase, staring down at the assembled adults with determination. He said firmly, "Mr. Moody, Louisa, I think you should go for now."

Blaise came over, hovering behind his shoulder like a determined ghost. Harry tried not to show his fear, looking at Vernon's reddening face and bulging eyes, Marge's pinched expression, Dudley's gaping mouth, and Petunia's gaze, reflecting back his own deep-set unease.

This wasn't going to be pretty.

 

* * *

 

Across the world from Privet Drive, Percy Weasley was musing on his life. Many children have a hard time going away to school. They miss their families, and when the time comes to return, they are grateful for the chance to see their mothers, fathers, and siblings once more. They long for their own beds all year long, send letters home requesting chocolates, and their parents send them tear-stained missives in return, begging for them to remember to change their pants on a regular basis and shower once a day. Percy, however, was not one of these children who missed their homes. He saved his longing for more complicated things.

The large majority of his family was at school with him all year, so he never had time to miss them. The heart, as it were, was completely unable to grow fonder in Percy's case. Besides which, he had spent entirely too much of the past year at home or in a coma for him to be happy to return to the Burrow for more of the same.

There were other problems as well. At home, unlike at school, his brothers and sister no longer had any distractions to keep them from questioning him about his experiences in the coma. All people, when they fall asleep, slip into the Dreamworld, but Percy's coma had been extensive. The sheer amount of time he'd had contact with the Dreamworld, as well as his own stubborn refusal to quit, had given him enough time that he had been able to complete a quest. That quest had allowed him to remember the Dreamworld as very few people-- and next to no one who wasn't a seer or a centaur-- could. His siblings seemed obsessed with this. Awakening with a phoenix suddenly attached to him had done him no favours either. Needless to say, Percy was very relieved when his father had won a sweepstakes and had subsequently spirited the entire family off to Egypt to visit the eldest Weasley child, Percy's older brother Bill. Granted, his parents had insisted on leaving a couple days later than planned to squeeze in one more healers' appointment for Percy, but a reprieve of a month in Egypt was nothing to scoff at.

"Does everyone have their Sunny-Daze on?" Molly Weasley worried, bustling from one of her children to the next proffering the neon yellow potions bottle. She was wearing a straw hat with a massive brim and filmy orange robes she had bought in one of the local bazaars. It blended in with her hair, making her look like a giant citrus fruit.

"Molly, I think forgot my 'fanny pack,'" Arthur said anxiously. He was rummaging around his robes' pockets, pulling out bits of wire and strange Muggle electronics as well as taffy and Chocolate Frogs. "How will we seem like Muggles if one of us doesn't have a fanny pack?"

"We'll just have to do without," Molly fretted. "We won't be going in many Muggle areas today anyway-- they'll likely not notice. I'm just pleased we can wear robes like decent people."

Percy grabbed the bottle out of Molly's waving hand while she was distracted and began dumping it on Ginny, the youngest Weasley and only girl. She always tried to weasel out of putting the potion on and got horribly sun-burned as a result.

"Percy!" she whined, trying to squirm away.

"Do you really want to peel all of your skin off after you've been out in the sun all day?" he asked practically. "And you know that Fred and George will poke the burn."

"Still!" She glared at him, but stopped squirming. Like all of the Weasleys, she had a tendency to burn horribly if out in the sun for more than a few minutes. Most of her girlhood had already been spent nursing one burn or another. She was one of the most mischievous of any of them and was always outside and in trouble.

"Let's just _go_ already," Ron, the youngest boy, said, almost whining. He had a big glob of Sunny-Daze hanging off of his long nose, but didn't seem to notice. It was at that point that Bill popped his head through the door.

"We all ready, Mum?" he asked.

Molly absently patted his cheek, taking the Sunny-Daze from Percy and tucking it away into one of her many diaphanous pockets. She scrubbed at Ron's nose before straightening up. "Of course, love." Her gaze turned to the rest of her brood. "Everyone, team up. Percy with Ron, twins together, Ginny with me. Make sure you don't lose sight of each other. I don't want anyone stolen by a Snatcher."

"Snatchers only take children in the dead of night, Mum," Fred argued.

"But we're in the desert-- it could still happen. This is where they live."  
Bill caught Percy's eyes and gave him a long-suffering look, but he refrained from explaining for the fourteenth time that Percy knew of that Snatchers, a long-fingered, hooded monster, were an urban myth propagated by British wizards in the 1700s to spread fear of foreigners. Percy hid a smile. Bill was the most rebellious of the Weasley children and had always been Percy's favorite, ever since they were small. Granted, Bill didn't have much competition besides Charlie. Fred and George had always seemed to have a specific loathing for Percy, naming him "stuffy" and a "right prick," as well as several things that couldn't be mentioned in Molly's presence. Ron tended to follow along with the twins, so of the younger siblings, only Ginny was tolerable, and Ginny was still just eleven for another couple of weeks.

Since arriving in Egypt, they hadn't had much of a chance to get to spend time with Bill yet, since he'd had to work for their first few days in Cairo. He was planning today to make up for lost time by whisking them away deep into the wizarding portion of Cairo before heading out to see the tombs where he worked as a curse-breaker for Gringotts Bank.

As they left the hotel and Bill shuffled them through winding streets, the heat sunk into Percy's bones like an anchor sunk into water. He turned his face up to the sun, listening to the lilt of Arabic and at least ten other languages fill his ears. Cairo was the largest city in Middle East; it was filled with both unspeakably old buildings and towering skyscrapers. Autos, motorbikes, and bicycle messengers rushed past urgently, and various brightly colored banners hung off of crumbling building facades, hiding age with flash. The women wore hijab, some white or black, but Percy saw younger women with patterned linens, their scarves rich pink or blue.

"A full quarter of the city has been sectioned off and belongs to wizards," Bill explained as they walked. "Muggles don't even realise that one of their largest metropolises is actually twenty-five percent again bigger."

"Is it safe?" Molly said, gaze darting around suspiciously.

Bill, kindly, didn't groan. "As safe as London, Mum."  
That didn't seem to comfort Molly, who at heart was a country girl of an impeccable family who had married beneath her. She didn't trust London with all the suspicion that a woman who had spent her childhood in Yorkshire had at her disposal.

"There three or four schools for wizardry in Cairo alone-- more magical children are educated here than in England, France, and Germany combined, for all that the Germans have been boasting of having multiple schools for decades."

"Are they… good schools?" Arthur said, with the voice of someone who didn't believe what he as saying but was game to try.

"The best," Bill confirmed, urging them to side-step a vendor. "Best in the world, maybe. Only the Japanese schools compare. Hogwarts may have the prestige and the history, but hardly provides the best education in the world."

He hooked a hard right through an archway between buildings and, suddenly, they were in wizarding Cairo.

"Bloody hell," Ron said, wide-eyed, and Molly promptly cuffed the back of his head.

The archway opened into large, open shopping area. The wizarding district was at the fringes of the city, built of sand and stone and shaded by a fringe of palm trees. Their lacy fronds were a bright green against the mass of brown buildings, arching up to touch the bluest sky Percy had ever seen outside of his dreams. There weren't really booths or stands in the market, but the shops' contents spilled out onto the street and their proprietors stood in front of them, eagle eyes on their wares.

_It reminds me of the elves' cities,_ Jeanne said, also sounding half-awed. She had been on his shoulder through all the Muggle portions of the city, but no one had seemed to notice her. Percy suspected magic.

_'You haven't seen it already?'_ Percy taunted. _'I thought you'd seen everything.'_ He shot her a sly look.

Jeanne shook out her feathers and launched herself into the air to take in the aerial view, her orange feathers almost glittering under the light of the Egyptian sun. _I never had much cause to leave Europe,_ she admitted. _That was more the area of the Grey Lord than the Light Lady._

"Okay there, Perce?" Bill asked. Percy blinked a couple of times as he transitioned from looking at his surroundings to looking at Bill. The sun was so bright that it took him a few moments to adjust.

"Of course," Percy replied. He found his gaze trailing back to where Jeanne was circling over a booth of used cauldrons, doing nothing more than enjoying the feel of wind through her feathers. She didn't get to fly here anywhere near as much as she had in the Dreamworld, and when asked why she didn't shift her form the way that she had there, she had given him a scornful look and said that it wasn't in the powers of phoenixes to shapeshift, but anyone could be anything they wanted in the Dreamworld if they were stubborn about it.

"It's just that you seem a bit… out of it."

With some difficulty, Percy pulled his attention back to earth. "Oh. Sorry." He smiled and Bill's shoulders eased a bit when he did. Ginny had tugged Molly away to look at a stand of cheap jewelry and Ron had gone with Arthur to watch a pair of hedge-witches who were demonstrating the uses of Muggle electric kettles. There weren't quite the same regulations in Egypt as there were in England regarding the use of Muggle objects. Fred and George were close by, though, and whispering furiously in a way that boded ill for everyone around them.

"I… have a lot on my mind," Percy said, half-an-eye on the twins. The sight of their bent red heads, the furtive glances from beneath their lowered lashes, filled him with dread. They were planning something. Percy raised his arm for Jeanne to come crashing down, rocking back a bit from her sudden weight. Her nails bit hard into the leather armguard that covered his arm now, even in the heat. "It's distracting."

Bill shrugged, his shoulder brushing against Percy's. "I'm just worried, yeah?"

"Everyone is." Percy was aware that his words took a harsh edge and had to bite his tongue to keep more from spilling out.

_You're doing much better than you were,_ Jeanne soothed. _You've just changed, and they're not used to it yet._

Percy quirked an eyebrow at her. _'And in what ways have I changed, Jeanne?'_

_The ways that matter,_ she said decidedly.

"And that's another thing." The sudden interruption into the conversation made Percy jump, looking back at Bill. The older boy was frowning at Jeanne. "It seems like you're talking to her sometimes."

"I am." Percy snorted and Jeanne whistled a laugh in response, the pure sound drawing an appreciative look from a nearby wizard. "She's a phoenix, not a pigeon."

"Is that safe?" Bill's voice was quiet. He seemed to be eyeing the twins too, who burst into laughter and started shoving each other over something. "If she has telepathy she could be manipulating you. Those kinds of bonds can be dangerous. Has anyone checked into it?"

Percy rolled his eyes. "You can see where she keeps her brain. It's not as if she's a sentient book determined to steal my soul. And of course she manipulates me. I know her enough to see through it."  
_Most of the time,_ Jeanne added.

"Most of the time," Percy confirmed, unconcerned.

Bill didn't seem to appreciate his nonchalance, but was distracted by Ginny nearly being knocked over by a witch as she rushed past. In the subsequent slew of apologies and care-taking, Bill hustled them all on to the bus stop. England's Knight Bus was nowhere near as efficient or well-used as Cairo's Bast Trolley, though their rail system for magical areas was much better. Gringotts had a few different bus lines that directed tourists to their excavation sites, and it was one of these that the Weasleys took.

The bus, when it finally appeared, was an elaborate affair, rough-sided and striped like a tiger, but with an exterior more like a frog with an interior more like the inside of a mouth, all red and pink velvet.

"Goblins," Bill explained, "have a weird thing about cats, though their cats are bred a little different from ours."

_So does the high king of Mars,_ Jeanne said idly. She was perched on the edge of one of the bus' empty window sills, undisturbed when the bus lurched into motion. The bus was moving so quickly that the scenery outside blurred, but she barely shifted her feet. _It's illegal both to harm a cat and to refuse one a caress in any of the lands under his control._

_'Yes, I know.'_ Percy grimaced, remembering a particularly frustrating moment in Plarr when he had ignored a cat and been set upon by the dream-city's thuggish _garda_.

The trip to the excavation site took maybe a half-hour-- a half-hour full of the twins squabbling, Ginny chattering and laughing with Bill, and Ron arguing with Arthur and Molly about the state of dirt on his nose. Percy was relieved when they finally made it.

The Pyramids of Giza were a tourist attraction, and naturally the goblins weren't even remotely interested in them. However, about sixty miles outside of the boundaries of the city was a small necropolis that the goblins had claimed as their own.

"I'm currently curse-breaking in the western quadrant," Bill told Arthur as the rest began to pile off of the bus, "but everything else is pretty safe if we want to explore. Only a handful of people are working today."

Those fateful words proved to be the reason that Percy ended up alone, locked in a tomb by the twins and trying his hardest to remember how to breathe.

It seemed like such a simple thing, until he had to think about it. He knew he had his wand, tucked deep into a pocket against his left leg. Jeanne was circling around the necropolis in the sky outside, but she would be able to sense his call and come for him. He knew he could get out of here, could shove past the twins laughing on the other side of the wall. He knew that all of that was possible, if he could move. It was just that… what was the point, exactly?

Sliding down to sit next to the raised cairn, he leaned his head back against it and watched the wall where the twins had closed him in. The door was no longer visible at all, an ancient magic that the Egyptians had specialised in, but since he knew where it was, logically, he could open it. Nothing bad would happen if Percy went out the door. Consciously, he knew that. It was just that if he went out, he would have to go past the twins, who would mock him. Ginny would pity him. Ron would go silent and awkward, all shuffling feet and ducked chin. Molly would berate them all, tell them that Percy was fragile and they needed to be careful. The thought of dealing with it all, talking with them, trying to pretend this wasn't all _ridiculous_ and juvenile and cruel, made him wish he could just go asleep down here and never wake. Things had made more sense in the Dreamworld, since nothing made sense so one came to expect it.

So Percy stayed sitting, and didn't call for Jeanne.

"Perce? Say something."

Percy blinked, once, to clear his head and looked back at Bill, who was crouching in front of him with his hand on Percy's shoulder. "Are the twins still out there?" he asked conversationally.

Bill's worry didn't abate in the slightest. "Percy, you need to talk to me." He sank to his knees in front of Percy, one hand braced on the floor and the other on Percy's knee, drawn up to his chest. "You're not okay." He paused. "Mum said you asked for me, when you first woke up. I wish I could've come."

"I know." Percy leaned his head back a little, staring over Bill's head. Eye contact felt like too much right now. Bill would be able to see too much if he looked at him properly. "I'm all right most of the time." Bill grunted a little, obviously not buying it, and Percy met his eyes briefly. "What did they tell you?"

"Mum said that you were communicating with a spirit trapped in a diary, and that it tried to gain a human body and sucked out your life force to do it. That put you in a coma, and then you were in the Dreamworld." He patted Percy's knee. "They actually worship the Dreamworld here, you know. They have dream-mages. A long time ago, they believed a god of dreams, Bes, was responsible for their dreaming. I'm just saying, the Dreamworld is more than most English wizards believe. I know you're telling the truth."

"Meaning, Mum may have told you I was cracked, but that Headmaster Dumbledore said the Dreamworld does exist."

"Pretty much."

Percy sighed. "She doesn't know much more, I suppose. They didn't need the details, and the details don't matter to anyone but me and Dumbledore, who keeps asking."

Percy considered Bill, sitting before him. He had about two answers he had given those that had asked before: an edited summary, similar to what Bill already knew, and an edited version of the truth, as his parents and Dumbledore knew. The third option was the actual truth, which he hadn't told anyone yet. If he was going to tell anyone, though, it would be Bill, the brother who had always soothed Percy's hurts and hugged him when he was afraid. Percy had been very young during the first war, and it had been Bill who watched him as their parents were off fighting. Percy trusted Bill, if he trusted anyone.

"Do you want the truth?" he asked, a note of honest curiosity in his voice. "I'm not sure if you'll appreciate it. I might not be able to tell it."  
Bill actually gave it some consideration where someone else might automatically say yes. "If you can, I'd like that."

Faced with that, Percy wasn't sure how to begin. Because there were another two versions of the full truth: one that spoke of Tom, and one that didn't, but this was Bill.

Slowly, Percy said, "I… I suppose it started when I decided to form a crush on the boy who existed in the diary. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Bill visibly had to stop himself from jolting at that, hands tensing against Percy's knees. Percy licked his lips, and remembered to breathe. "Don't interrupt. Please. He asked me if I would help him gain a body, and he… I liked him. I agreed. I didn't know what he would do or who he was. Tom Riddle is the assistant of the Minister in England, now. It's You-Know-Who's real name."

Bill opened his mouth, eyes going wide, but Percy shook his head.

"If you interrupt, I won't be able to continue. So I had a crush on him, a stupid schoolboy crush. Which is why when I woke up in the Dreamworld, the incubus I met took his face. He stayed with me off and on throughout the entire… quest. I spent months in a trade-city on the edge of an infinite ocean, working and living in a place that I'm not convinced isn't a brothel, though Jeanne would say otherwise. I eventually figured out where the Door to Waking was, but it was on the opposite edge of the Dreamworld. I needed a guide, and I was told to search out a phoenix."

Percy told Bill the entire story, occasionally faltering, but the only thing he truly glanced over were the reasons he and Tom had been able to open the Door of Waking. "Now," he said, "I walk through the Door every time I fall asleep and I'm there again. There was this light on the other side of it when it opened-- I think it blasted it open, and the metaphorical hinges don't work any longer." Percy sighed. "And when I'm awake, I hate it. I only see Tom when I sleep, and it's so fake here, compared to in dreams, but--" He started laughing. "--the thing that bothers me the most is that my hair's too long. The Pig-Men shaved it off before they tied me to the stake, and now it feels like it's strangling me."

While he laughed weakly, Bill was silent.

"Well," he said after a time, rocking back on his heels and beginning to rise, "that's easy enough to fix." Raking a hand back through the long hair that made Molly grumble and grab at her scissors, Bill gave a wry smile. "Not that I would know anything about it, of course."

Slowly, Percy smiled back. "Don't tell Mum," he added quietly as he got to his feet.

Bill snorted. "When have I ever told Mum anything?" Slinging an arm around Percy's shoulder, he mussed Percy's hair enthusiastically. "Your secrets are safe with me, Perce."

 

* * *

  
The sun had fallen on Privet Drive. The neighbors' children had been herded inside for their dinners, and all of the cars had returned to rest in their driveways. Chores were done for the day and, one by one, the tellys in living rooms down the street had flickered on. Harry lay on his bed and listened to the crashing and yelling downstairs. The walls seemed to vibrate and the floor shook, as if the very house could come down from the strength of Vernon's rage. He and Dudley had been sent to their rooms, without dinner but with smacks to the back of their heads. Meanwhile, Vernon yelled and Petunia stopped apologising and started yelling back. Marge interjected with comments that were nothing more than cruel, a verbal poison that wound through the entire conversation. It seemed to go on for hours, but eventually the noises tapered off and all Harry could hear was the hum of electricity in the walls.

He couldn't fall asleep. This was his fault. He had barely been able to get Louisa and Moody to leave without making everything worse, and neither had been happy about it. Moody had sworn to come back with reinforcements, and the grim look on Louisa's face had been dire enough that she didn't need to swear anything. She had only agreed to leave after informing Uncle Vernon precisely what would happen if she saw one hair out of place on Harry's head. The embrace she had given him and her assurance of safety had comforted Harry more than he expected; she'd had to pry Blaise away, which had been harder. Harry had sent Surana, Whisper, and Demi with them, worried about what might happen if Vernon caught evidence of magical pets in addition to everything else. Ripper, Aunt Marge's dog, was there besides, snarling and barking at everyone, even as the door closed behind the Zabinis and Moody.

Uncle Vernon didn't respond to common sense or reason as he was interrogating Harry, and when Harry and Dudley had finally been sent away, it only seemed to get worse.

It was just before midnight when his door creaked open. Harry sat up, peering through the darkness until he saw Petunia slipping into his room.

"Aunt Petunia?"

Seeing him awake, she shushed him. "Get your things," she whispered.

"Why?" He got up immediately and grabbed his trunk, still packed.

"Don't ask questions." She gestured to his books under the bed. "Pack everything, Harry."

He paused at that, staring at her face. The moon was almost full, and what he could see of her face in that pearly light was so full of sorrow. She almost never called him by his name. That she had now chilled him to the core. He did as she asked, following her down the stairs and into the kitchen. Almost everything they passed was broken. The cupboard doors were crushed in and the throw pillows torn to shreds. The liquor cabinet was empty; the glasses smashed; the new television crushed on the floor.

"How…?" Before he could finish his question, Harry saw two boys, both frustratingly taller than him, standing on the kitchen mat. "Blaise? Draco?"

"Shh!" Petunia pushed him toward them a bit. "Go before Vernon or Marge wakes up."

She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. Draco matched her, sneer for sneer, but Blaise seemed determined to catalogue every inch of Harry, as if Vernon was going to beat him bloody in the few hours that Blaise had been separated from him. Harry looked back at Petunia, head sinking to his chest. The home she had made, that she took so much pride in, was broken all around her. "Aunt Petunia," he said softly. He looked from the broken curio to the smashed plates to the vase in the living room, on the floor in shards with the flowers ground into the carpet.

"Just go," she said curtly, looking away.

Gathering his courage, he darted forward, hugging her around the waist. She stiffened, but he was done before she managed to shove him away. "Thanks, Aunt Petunia. I'm sorry," he said, and then both Blaise and Draco linked arms with him as they took him from the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percy is doing better, but he's still having a tough time. The Weasleys are not racist, but their world-view is very English-centered, and they have a hard time thinking of anything outside their experience as trustworthy. Bill finds it frustrating, and Percy experienced enough in the Dreamworld that he has that in common with Bill where he might had similar views as his parents. The timeline of the Weasleys' excursion to Egypt is very, very slightly changed from the books (you probably won't notice unless you're looking between Common Sense and Prisoner of Azkaban at the same time) due to Percy having to visit the healers / I.E. me changing things.
> 
> So, I had a hard time landing on how, exactly, I wanted Vernon's reaction to play out. I toyed with the idea of him hitting either Petunia or Harry, and the horror and shock of that leading to Petunia helping Harry leave. He's shown in the books that mild violence is his way, often raising his fist to threaten Harry and hitting Dudley in the first book when he was having his breakdown. He locked Harry in his room second year and fed him through a cat flap, putting bars on the window. Vernon's mental breakdowns, violence, and irrational behavior are 100% canon-- but out-and-out violence isn't really his way most of the time. And if he's truly angry at Petunia for deceiving him about something he finds as repulsive as magic, the one thing that she takes pride in, her entire world, is her house. For Vernon to take out the violence on the house rather than a person probably hurt her more than him striking either of them could have done.


	27. [Year Three] Flat-Footed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a long and plot-filled discussion that answers very few of Harry's questions, and Harry finds that the Lavender House is not quite as welcoming as usual.

Harry had never really been outside on Privet Drive when it was this dark before. The world seemed foreign somehow, all darkened edges and shadows where there should have been light. Uncle Vernon's car seemed like a monster in the night; the light on in Mrs. Figg's window an anomaly. Nothing, though, was stranger than the sight of his two closest friends flanking the front step of Number Four.

 "So this is where you grew up, then?" Draco looked left and right, then back at Harry slyly, a smirk edging over his lips. He was completely incongruous next to Petunia's shrubbery, his face so white against the backdrop of greenery that he seemed to glow.

Blaise's snorted. "Stuff it, Draco." His entire body seemed rigid, like the visual expression of the throbbing, low notes on a guitar string that he always made Harry listen to over and over again, shoving headphones over Harry's head when he was trying to read and putting the Sing-spinner on repeat. He was looking Harry over, as if Harry might be broken somewhere that he couldn't see.

 "Well, if you're going to be  _that_ way."

The break had treated Draco well. After a hellish summer last year and trouble at school besides, Draco seemed to have gotten back some of his colour. He didn't seem as stressed either, standing easier and taller. It probably helped that his father was no longer bleeding him constantly to feed the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor.

"Should you be here?" Harry asked, sending a quick look to where the watcher usually was on the corner. He stopped, mouth ajar. Standing there, as cool as could be, was Narcissa Malfoy. She looked very slender and pale beneath the light of the street lamp, a halo of light caught in her long, straight hair.

"Not really," Draco replied airily as they walked over to her. "But one takes opportunities where one can."

"Hi, Lady Malfoy," Harry greeted. He looked around covertly; his watcher had to be somewhere. They _never_ left, not that he had seen. Wherever he or she might be, however, Harry didn't see them. All he saw was a hulking behemoth of a dog, shaggy and dark.

"Harry." She smiled warmly at him, the haughty expression on her face giving way to pleasure. "We have to go before Louisa can't delay Dumbledore's watchdog any longer. Are you prepared?"

"Uhh, yeah." Harry glanced around again, confused, as Lady Malfoy took a silver pendant from her pocket.

"Everyone take hold of the chain now," she ordered. Confused, Harry followed the others in doing as she had asked. Lady Malfoy closed her eyes. Harry darted a glance at Draco, but found that he was doing the same. Blaise smiled at him encouragingly, and might have said something if not for sudden pull. There was a hooking sensation below Harry's ribs, like a chain wheeling him across the world. Harry could see it in the corners of his eyes, a sparkling golden chain reeling them in like an anchor tied to a pulley. (He could, vaguely, see his trunk abandoned outside the whirlwind, and spared a moment to wonder why he had brought it if it was just going to get left behind.) The world spun, blurring together, sparks, and the frantic barking from the dog nearby. The very next moment, they were in front of the Lavender House in Positano.

Italy was only an hour ahead of England, so it was still dark as Lady Malfoy ushered them inside, all of them stumbling with dizziness from the effects of the mode of transportation. It had to be a Portkey, which Harry had heard one of his fellow Ravenclaws mention once or twice, not that he could remember who had said it. Harry nearly tripped over the flat paving stones that led the way through the courtyard to the Lavender House's wide, pale purple front door. The lovely grey stone house seemed to welcome him, not as sentient as Hogwarts perhaps, but homely nonetheless.

"Go straight to bed," Lady Malfoy urged, one elegant hand pushing Draco forward and the other attempting to steady a nauseated Harry.

"My trunk," he managed to get out. "Books."

Lady Malfoy opened the front door, turning a smile on Harry as she ushered them inside. "Louisa will get it before she makes her way back here. To bed, boys."

The Lavender House was a welcome sight after Privet Drive. Harry loved it more fiercely than he loved Hogwarts. It was where he went on holidays and breaks, the one place where he had his very own room that had never been anyone else's second-anything. The dark entryway was full of expensive-looking furniture, nothing like the broken shards of Petunia's best. There were flowers in vases and filmy curtains that waved from the breeze coming in through the open windows. Harry noted the familiar sight as he was pushed past, heading up the sweeping staircase to the bedrooms upstairs. Of course, they didn't go to bed immediately. Even Lady Malfoy probably didn't believe they would.

"Has he always been like that?" Blaise demanded once the door to Harry's bedroom closed behind all three of them.

Harry's brow furrowed as he gingerly sat on the bed, head still spinning from the Portkey. "No? I… Uncle Vernon?"

He looked around the room. It hadn't changed since he had seen it last. Ever since last summer, really, he considered it his _real_ room, not like the place where he slept at Privet Drive. Curiously, despite not having changed, it did appear to be moving somehow. The bed swam before his eyes for a moment before he realized that the shifting blankets were Surana and Whisper fighting their way out from beneath the covers, and not his eyes playing tricks on him.

"Speaker!" Surana cried.

"Ssspeaker," Whisper murmured, sounding almost tearful with joy.

"It's okay," he said to them, bemused. Once Whisper had resumed his regular position around Harry's upper arm and Surana had wound herself over his shoulders and his other arm, he looked back up to Blaise and Draco.

"We assumed he would be mad if he found out." Harry was troubled, though, by leaving Petunia there alone in the house to face the anger that Harry had caused. He couldn't really believe that she had protected him and helped him get out of the house the way that she had.

Draco sat at Harry's desk chair, absently opening one of the books that Harry had left there last summer. "But how did he not know to begin with?"

It took Harry a second to answer, distracted by wondering if it would be rude to ask Draco to take care not to bend the book's spine. "Surana helped come up with the plan," he explained, picking at a loose thread on a blanket. "When I got my letter for first year, she told me what people were calling me. About being 'the Boy Who Lived.' We knew Aunt Petunia must know, since Surana knew my mum and dad were a witch and wizard, and Petunia was my mum's sister. But Surana and I didn't know how much Uncle Vernon knew, so we thought that a chance to keep my… freakishness secret from Uncle Vernon might make Aunt Petunia more helpful than she might have been otherwise."

The book snapped closed in Draco's hands; Harry darted a worried look at it. He had gotten it used and it was a fragile thing.

"You're not 'freakish,'" Blaise said firmly, drawing Harry's eyes to him.

Harry smiled. "No, we are, to Muggles. It's just… not a bad thing, I think." Maybe Vernon thought so, and all of Vernon's sort, but Privet Drive wasn't the end of the world. There were weird, blue-haired girls on motorbikes even among Muggles; wizards had those strange singers that Blaise pushed on him all the time; dwarves had women like Professor Perenelle Flamel's ancestress, with her giant bladed staff and spiked hair, who had been cast out from her clan and had fought for goblins in the Goblin Wars. Everyone had a story, no matter how strange other people thought they were.

"Will he harm your aunt?" Draco asked. He regarded Harry steadily, the way a scientist might look at a lab specimen.

Harry tensed. "I don't think so." He frowned. "Maybe he-- I don't think so." That wasn't what the Dursleys did. Street toughs in Whitechapel or Bethnal Green might hit their wives, but not Vernon Dursley, no sir. "Tell me about what's been going on in the wizarding world," he urged. "Did they really let Sirius Black escape?" Harry had read about Black early on, when he had been learning about the wizarding world, his parents' deaths, and his family's history. Black had been in all of the wizarding and Muggle papers for days now, ever since he had escaped from England's highest security wizarding prison, Azkaban.

"Yes, and be careful," Blaise stressed. "Mother thinks he might come after you, if not this summer, than at Hogwarts. He was heard muttering in his sleep about you, and he knows that his Lord was supposedly killed or defeated by you."

"But that doesn't make sense. Does he know the Dark Lord has returned? And if he doesn't, or even if he does, what would it get him? And why try to attack me at Hogwarts, a ley line lodestone and one of the most secure places in the world-- well, in Britain-- if everyone's expecting you to?"

"I imagine he's completely bonkers by now," said Draco pragmatically. "He doesn't have to make sense."

Harry rolled his eyes. Leave it to Draco to support an emotional way of thinking rather than a logical one. Wouldn't a supposedly high-ranking henchman of the Dark Lord show more foresight than that? Besides, Harry preferred rationality to feelings. It was-- Blaise yawned, and Harry felt a peculiar fluttering in his chest-- far easier to understand.

 

* * *

 

Over breakfast the next morning, Louisa and Lady Malfoy exchanged stories about some couple they had known in their school days while Blaise and Draco discussed the Quidditch game they would be playing later, and Harry stared curiously across the table at Theodore Nott.

Nott's presence shouldn't have entirely been a surprise, though it was. He had been at the Malfoys' Yule parties for years, but somehow, Lady Malfoy and Draco seemed to have gotten him in the separation from Lord Malfoy while Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be found.

"They followed me around toward the end of last year because no one told them otherwise," Draco had explained the night before, "but once Mother joined me and they heard officially from their fathers…." He hadn't looked sad, exactly, but perhaps regretful. Crabbe and Goyle had never exactly been their friends, but they had always been there. And now they weren't.

Nott would be there for the rest of the summer while his parents were doing something political in Rwanda that Harry didn't quite understand, though he would join his family again the last week before school. He had a book propped open against his knee in discreet disregard for Louisa's exceedingly unkind "no books at the table" rule, and was absently gnawing at his nails instead of his breakfast, his pale brown hair in his eyes.

Harry looked away, poking at his eggs and wondering how breakfast at Privet Drive was going. He wondered if he'd ever be back. He wondered if he even wanted to go back. He certainly wouldn't mind never seeing Vernon or Dudley again.

There was a light kick to his leg and someone's toes nudged his shin. He looked up to see Louisa's smile. "Stop brooding, Harry. Dumbledore will make sure your aunt is well." She glanced over at Theo and her eyes narrowed. "Don't think I don't see that book, Theodore Erasmus Nott."

Nott closed the book carefully and began eating his foot under Louisa's watchful eye. Blaise and Harry exchanged a look, familiar with Louisa's opinions about books at the table from last summer.

Sully, the Zabinis' demure, purple-clad house elf, whisked their plates away almost before they were finished, causing Nott to almost instantly excuse himself and wander off upstairs with his book already open in his hand. He was nearly as bad as Harry, it seemed.

"Hold for a moment, boys, please," Louisa said firmly when Harry, Blaise, and Draco made to do the same. "We have some talking to do, I'm afraid."

"We do." Harry gnawed on the inside of his lip before blurting out, "What went on last night?"

Louisa nose wrinkled delicately as she took a sip of her coffee. "Your darling watcher, Narcissa's niece, actually, and I got into an argument, which allowed Narcissa enough time to spirit you away. I was hardly going to leave you in that house longer than I had to. Which brings me to what isn't even the most pressing of the points I need to make: you shan't be returning to that house if I have anything to say about it."

"The Dursleys _are_ my guardians," Harry pointed out.

Blaise snorted. "They're doing you a lot of good, then, aren't they?"

"Blaise." The mild rebuke made Blaise duck his head, but he didn't look abashed. Louisa set her cup down, back straightening. "Harry, their behavior toward you is unacceptable, you must realise that."

Harry shrugged, staying silent. "I'm not their son," he said softly.

Surana hissed, but didn't weigh in for once; snakes had next to no maternal instinct, as Harry had learned, and Surana's fondness for him was more of an anomaly than a motherly bond most of the time.

"Do you know about cuckoos?"

"…No?"

Seeing how he confused he was, Louisa shook her head. "I have a point, Harry. Bear with me. Cuckoos are a strange family of birds, and encompass a number of different kinds of birds within that family. Some cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in another's nest, and the child responds by destroying the other nests, killing the parents' other chicks, and demanding all of the parents' attention. Other birds in the cuckoo family, however, such as the anis, have communal nests, where everyone shares responsibility over the young. You are not the first type of cuckoo, Harry."

Now completely lost, as he often was when Louisa tried to explain something with one of her bird metaphors, Harry looked pleadingly at Blaise. His friend, unhelpfully, was clearly trying to hold in laughter.

"She's saying," Lady Malfoy said gently, "that you're wonderful, and the Dursleys treat you as a parasite, which is no way to treat a child."

"Exactly," Draco confirmed with a short nod.

"How was that unclear?" Louisa pursed her lips, frowning darkly. "Nevertheless--"

"What were the other points you wanted to make, Mum?" Blaise interrupted. His bare feet had moved to rest on the lowest rung of Harry's chair, drawing his legs close enough that Harry could almost feel them. Harry took a breath, relaxing into the chair as Blaise and his mother exchanged a look that he couldn't begin to decipher.

"All right." Louisa folded her hands with grace, looking at all three boy's in turn levelly. "All three of you have been allowed to stay since we know that you all know… pieces of what has been going on over the past year, but perhaps not in a way that makes sense. Draco informed you that there are many, including the Dark Lord, who believe that you may be the Grey Lord."

"Yes, I'd heard… 'Many?'"

Lady Malfoy smiled. "Yes, many. You see, there hasn't really been person for political moderates to support in some time. They are forced to choose either one side or another, or to back the Ministry as best as they can. My husband's family and my own have been deeply entrenched with Dark-aligned magic since time unknown, but both Light and Dark families alike turn to Shadow when the other options become untenable. It can be… a safe haven, when necessary."

"Essentially, for lack of a Grey Lord," Louisa interjected, "many of those inclined toward something other than the Light or Dark are in the Ministry, since there seems to be no other place for them to affect change. However, there have been signs--"

"And what are those signs, exactly?" Draco was looking between the two women sharply. "You only told me that it was _likely_ , not what made you think one of my best friends is a fairy tale."

"Perhaps you would know if you didn't interrupt," his mother said sweetly, making Draco flush. "I feel we've discussed interrupting before, darling." Under her glare, Draco shrank in his seat.

"Some have noted that Hogwarts welcomes Harry after an absence," Louisa explained. "The ley lines seem to twine around him by those who see them. You're the one that brought that to our attention, Draco, though you didn't realise what it meant. When he connected with them-- and yes, I know all about that and am _not_ pleased you decided to do such a thing unsupervised--

"Traitor," Harry muttered to Blaise, who crossed his eyes.

"--it became clear that he definitely has the potential to be the Grey Lord. That kind of activity would be impossible if Harry wasn't a person of importance." Louisa put her hand over Harry's, gently unfurling his clenched fist so that his nails stopped biting into his palms. "You would be a good Grey Lord," she said gently. "In time, perhaps. You already have political power as the Boy Who Lived, the person who put a stop to the Dark Lord's tyranny when even Dumbledore couldn't. That in itself proves you are the third option that all the Grey is hoping for." She smiled a bit wryly, then. "Not to say that either Dumbledore or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are true Light or Dark Lords, such as might have appeared in legend. They're merely the best options, as it stands."

"Many still argue that there is no such thing as a 'true' Lord," added Lady Malfoy, "and consider them the stuff of legends, but there is another sect that believes that the Three Lords did exist as they appeared in the myths."

"But what does that mean?"

Blaise snorted at that, feet knocking harder against the base of Harry's chair. "It means that the Dark Lord wants to kill you."

Rolling her eyes at her offspring, Louisa said, "Lord Voldemort doesn't enjoy it when people have options other than himself, and I doubt he will be so kind as to suffer you to live longer than he has to. He seems to be playing a game that we don't quite understand yet, though, judging by the requests we know that he made of you to research the matter of ley lines and the Lords. Dumbledore, who has set himself up as the Light Lord even though he doesn't officially claim the title, will want to control you. Narcissa and I, we hope to keep you removed from the situation for as long as possible. Many of the old ways have been lost. It's unclear how you would even become a true Grey Lord, like the Lords of the legends, rather than a potential one, assuming you would even want such a thing. You certainly shouldn't be forced to some kind of choice when we aren't even certain of all of the options."

Harry hated Chosen Ones as a plot device and had ever since he had first picked up a fantasy novel. Individuals didn't change history. Groups did, movements did. Individuals were only figureheads or culminating points for certain views, not saviors. He _certainly_ didn't wish to be a prophesied Grey Lord or anything of the kind-- and what did he know about politics in the wizarding world besides?

"This is all speculation." He shoved his hand back through his hair, nearly upsetting Whisper from his place around Harry's arm. Surana was peculiarly silent throughout this whole thing, which didn't bode well. "If I went so far as to want to be this Grey Lord, would I even have had the potential to be one to begin with? It seems as if the entire point is to provide a safe place for people caught between the two sides, a middle ground. Someone who wants that isn't going to be a Grey Lord or search out how to properly be one. Which could help explain why there hasn't been one in all these years." Striving for the power of a Lord seemed counter-intuitive to the purpose-- and what would the ramifications be if he actively sought that power for the sole purposes of claiming that power? It seemed unlikely he would succeed, but the entire thing was a little too philosophical for his liking.

Shaking her head, Louisa said, "It's not a discussion we need to have right now, regardless. We just wanted you to be… aware."

"You're very bright, Harry," Lady Malfoy said, rising to her feet. "You need to use all of your intelligence in defense of yourself this year. We doubt it's going to be an easy one."

 

* * *

 

After they had split up for the day, Harry found himself oddly at a loss for what to do. Normally in the summers, he and Blaise spent every available moment together, listening to music, swimming, going to the markets, or just being together. Blaise and Draco, however, already had plans, routines they had fallen into over the past several weeks.

Usually, Harry didn't mind being alone. It was easier to read that way. Now, though, even Surana's excited patter about the new family of mice that had been so foolish as to move into the walls of the pantry couldn't keep him from worrying about what Louisa had told him, as well as what might be going on at the Dursleys.

"Ssspeaker, the loud woman will be fine," Surana finally said outright, exasperated.

"I know," Harry said. He was trying not to sweat as he went past the large, open windows that lined the hallway. The breeze stirred them but where last night it had been pleasantly cool, today it felt like an oven door had opened and the stifling air was at least 200°C.

The library was straight ahead, the familiar maple bookshelves almost reaching to the ceiling and the shelves giving off a warm, blonde glow in the indirect sunshine from the hall. The books floated around the room lazily, repairing themselves, shaking off dust, and polishing their leather covers bright. The Hogwarts Library was far too large to have this kind of enchantment, but since the Zabinis' library was just the one room, the books took care of their own. Harry wanted nothing so much as he wanted a room like this one someday.

That was when he noticed that there, sitting curled up in Harry's favorite plum-colored armchair and stroking the back of a gigantic black tomcat, was Nott.

"Oh." Harry couldn't help the soft, disappointed exhale. Surana perked up, giving the cat an interested look before she clearly decided that he would be too much trouble.

"Potter," Nott said, easing the book down warily. "I suppose you want the room."

"No!" Harry lied. "There's enough room for both of us."

Nevertheless, he was unable to properly focus as he attempted to take notes on his book. He watched the other boy out of the corner of his eye, distracted by Nott's pointed stare at his own book, which he was attempting to rest on the uncooperative cat's back. Settling into his second-favourite chair without much grace, Harry was soon absorbed in the book despite himself.

It was a difficult text. The author had never met an adverb or a parenthetical that he didn't love, leading to long, rambling, off-topic sentences. Harry sometimes couldn't tell what an entire page was saying, so he had to go back and re-read a number of times until it finally sank in. The pages in his notebook were slowly filling with notes and questions when he heard Nott ask, "Is that Callou's  _The Geography of Ley Lines, with Regards to Polarity, Pull, and Position in the Stars and a Sincere Consideration for Gravity_?"

It took Harry a moment to properly realise that he was being spoken to, and then his eyes lit up. "Yes! It's awful. Useful, but awful."

"I'd heard that about Callou," Nott said, sitting up a bit and shooing the cat to the floor. "He never met an adverb that he didn't love."

"That's exactly what I was thinking!" Harry exclaimed.

After that, discussing Callou compared to others' works on the same topic took up so much time that Louisa practically had to drag them away for lunch. The debate of Ramsey versus Swyftenaith raged throughout tea as well, and at one point involved the use of a diagram that required delicate tea sandwiches and the odd scone. At the point of Harry gesticulating with a container of clotted cream, Louisa took the books away, locked the library, and forced them to follow Blaise and Draco to the cove that they were using for Quidditch practice.

 "We can have a proper team! Two against two!" Draco crowed. "Finally. I call Nott."

"Why can't I have Nott?" Blaise darted Harry a look, but Harry just shrugged: Quidditch was not something he had ever had much interest in. The flying lessons that they'd had first year had been mildly interesting, but they were never allowed to do very much, and after that, studying had taken precedence. He was well-aware of just how good he was at sport. (Which was to say, not. Shortly after learning that Dudley wouldn't chase him into the library, he hadn't had much reason to physically exert himself.)

 "I called him," Draco said airily.

 "I could be reading," Nott muttered under his breath, glaring balefully at the sun.

 Harry gave him a commiserating look.

The rest of the day, much to Harry's surprise, was highly enjoyable. Darting around on brooms at breakneck speeds felt like flying, and even Surana's intense disapproval couldn't keep him from doing loops and drawing runes in the air with his flight, soft golden light flashing in the corners of his vision from the energy that connected everyone in the world, each to each.

 Finally, stumbling home after dark and probably very, very late for dinner, he felt like he could breathe for the first time since he had left Privet Drive last night.

 

* * *

 

 

The remainder of the summer was taken up by reading, arguing with Draco and Nott, listening to odd musicians with Blaise, and joining the boys in avoiding Louisa's wedding plans and her betrothed.

 "It's best not to get attached," Blaise said cynically, and Harry couldn't argue. If his mother had been a crossroads witch, he probably would have felt the same.

 Besides reading and spending time with his friends, there were also the letters. All of the girls—Mandy Brocklehurst and Padma Patil from his year, Penelope Clearwater from seventh year, and Luna Lovegood from a year behind him—sent him letters. Luna tended to only send one or two lines in addition to strange objects as gifts, but Padma and Mandy would send pages of their notes on arithmancy so they could compare resources. Fred was probably Harry's most frequent correspondent, or at least the most memorable.

" _I can't believe we all get to go to Egypt!"_ Fred had written early on, before Harry had left Privet Drive. " _I hope Percy doesn't wreck it. He's already spouting off about Egyptian magic. I swear he's determined to bore us all with facts about modern politics."_

 Harry had avoided saying that both of those things sounded like amazing topics of conversation, but only barely. He wasn't sure if Fred knew him at all, and honestly didn't expect him to. Besides a determined need to send him letters all summer and the snow battles last winter, they hadn't spent much time together, which was why the first letters had been a surprise. However, when he got Fred's next, he was aghast, if not surprised.

 

_Harry—  
_

_Hope your summer's going better than it was! You're with the Zabinis now, right? I heard Mum and Dad complaining that you had snuck out right under the nose of the guard Dumbledore had set. George tried to get them to say why you need a guard, but they clammed right up. Everyone's mad at us, so we're not likely to get answers from any of them. We tried to teach Percy a lesson for being so stuffy and locked him in one of the tombs, but all it did was make him go all weird and shave his head like a girl after a bad breakup, which tore Mum right up and made her start yelling at Bill since Bill helped him, and saying that if he was going around cutting hair, he could at least give his own a trim. I don't know why they're making such a fuss. He could have gotten out any time, if he had asked._

_Anyway, you done with all your homework yet? Want to take a stab at mine? I'm joking, so don't make a fuss about academic integrity._

_See you soon!  
Forge_

 

Harry had watched over Percy in his coma, visiting the hospital every Friday with Penelope. As such, he felt invested in keeping Percy well, unlike Fred, apparently. Fred's casual disregard for Percy reminded him of Dudley in the worst of ways.

 

 _Dear Fred,_ he wrote, quill digging into the parchment before he forced himself to lighten the pressure,

_I know we don't know each other that well, but even though it's probably none of my business—are you being serious right now? No wonder everyone is upset with you two—Percy just barely woke up and now you're locking him in tombs for talking too much or being too bossy. He only just stopped forgetting whether he was in a dream or awake! And even if he hadn't been in a coma, that's still cruel, and bullying is still bullying if you think the person you're harassing is ‘an officious prick.'_

_I understand why you might want to do it—I mean, Percy's not easy to get along with. He's told me before that I shouldn't be spending time with Slytherins since they're not really 'my sort.' But it's still not better to… I don't know. Just, please don't expect me to approve of that._

_My homework's set now, even everything I'm doing for extra credit. Maybe you can pull something in about Egypt, since you're there? The professors would probably be impressed and think you did extra credit research._

_Cheers,_

_Harry_

 

After a moment of hesitation, Harry pulled out another page of paper as well and wrote, in careful, hesitant script:

 

_Dear Percy,_

_I know we haven't spoken very much before, but Penelope may have told you that I visited your room with her every Friday for most of the year. It's… strange, to have not heard from you since school ended, so I wanted to check in. Hearing about you from Fred is a little troublesome. He doesn't seem very nice._

_I've been spending time learning about ley lines this summer, since all of my homework is done. Did you know that St. Mungo's is a node? I could see it when I first connected to them. I'm still trying to learn how to see them properly, but they show as gold flickers and flashes. Not like when I connected to them after winter hols and I could see it really clearly._

_Do you have any study projects? I bet you have a lot to do to catch up after being out most of last year. Let me know if I can help._

_Hope all is well,_

_Harry Potter_

 

When the return messages came a few days later, Harry was up in the owlery, petting Demi and reading one of his wizarding novels, _Ready Set Run,_ about a wayward, time-traveling shopgirl.

 _"Well, then,"_  Fred replied, and then moved on as if nothing had happened, writing about some trinket he had picked up that he thought Harry would like. Harry shook his head and set it down to pick up Percy's.

Percy's handwriting was a very precise and elegant Copperplate with swirls and embellishments that scrawled across the page.

 

 _Dear Harry,_ he wrote.

_Fred being unkind isn't news to me, unfortunately. I imagine he told you that I was less than pleased to be locked into a tomb, and that has spurred some amount of pity in you. Let me belay your fears: I am quite well, and do not require or want your sympathy._

_I am pleased, however, that you have completed your homework. So few of our peers appreciate how important it is to complete their work and get in extra studying. It's the kind of thing that will hinder them when our time at Hogwarts ends. I do question whether ley lines are a worthy object of study. Though interesting, is such study really practical? Ley lines are connected only to theory, for the most part, and the manipulation of them is ill-advised to all except the most expert of practitioners. I hope you're taking due caution._

_I will be repeating the year, as you may know, so I only have to make sure to keep my current skills in practice. My education has been horribly derailed by being in a coma, though perhaps what I learned in the dream is worth more than formal education, if such a thing can be believed. I suppose that may be one thing to consider, if you still continue your study: if the Dreamworld is real, which I can safely say it is, are ley lines present there, considering that they certainly connect all things in the World of Waking? There was this gold light as I was waking… but that may be irrelevant to the question. Your talk of gold flickers and flashes reminded me of it, somehow._

_Thank you for your inquiry into my health, though it was unnecessary._

_Sincerely,_

_Percy Ignatius Weasley_

 

Harry shook his head, nudging Demi off of his shoulder. "They're both obnoxious," he told the owl.

"What do you expect?" Surana said sleepily, uncurling from her place on the sunny windowsill. "They're Weasleys, Ssspeaker."

"If you say so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to have another scene. And then it occurred to me how very long that would make this chapter. And then I changed my chapter outlines and deemed it good. Damn you, ever-expanding chapter length! I am going to try my hardest to get another chapter out by the last of this month, but if that doesn't happen, I am going to be on hiatus for April, since I will be participating in Camp NaNoWriMo!
> 
> I edited the Percy scene from last chapter since I was less than pleased with how it was written, but very little has changed content-wise. On the note of Percy, his letter in this chapter was as stuffy, formal, and judgmental as I could make it. Poor Percy-- you'll never get any friends if you don't stop making people want to punch you. Now is probably a good moment to mention that I love the twins. I really do. But they're often complete assholes, and when you have someone who's unimpressed by their charm, all you have left is what they do, which is kind of... mean.


	28. [Year Three] Warning Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the summer's end, Harry attends yet another party. This is much to his dismay, since he is most decidedly not a party person. Soon thereafter, he is off on the Hogwarts Express, headed back to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, his train ride is interrupted.

Of all the letters that Harry received over the course of the summer, Harry never did hear from Petunia. He hadn't expected that he would, to be honest, so he distracted himself from worrying about his aunt and worrying about the entire Grey Lord business as much as he could. He competed in chess tournaments with Nott and Draco, studied with Nott, and at one point participated in an extremely awkward dance-off with Blaise. Finally, it was a week before classes were to begin again and Louisa planned a party. Nott would be going home after it and the rest of them would stay in London until they had to catch the train.

The entire house was overtaken with a fleet of hired house elves to supplement Dobby and Sully. It smelled of freshly cut flowers and rich desserts. Louisa had brought in fountains of champagne and chocolate that always flowed and never changed temperature. In every room and hallway, the sheer heather-colored curtains were pinned back and had been enhanced with a glow of silver glitter. The paintings shone with cleanliness and repair, gossiping and whispering with excitement as the house elves dusted their frames; the mirrors had either been given silencing charms or stern warnings depending on their personalities; the library had been locked to prevent Harry and Nott from taking comfort there. All in all, the house had become entirely uncomfortable.

"Blaise, if you could attempt not to verbally destroy my betrothed while in the same room as him, I would appreciate it," Louisa suggested, fussing with his and Harry's appearance outside of the door to the courtyard. The bulk of the party would occur in the front courtyard, which meant that Harry could at least hide in his room if all else failed. On the other side of the door, Harry could hear the mutter of voices, Lady Malfoy's laughter recognisable over the buzz of the other voices.

"Why? He won't stick around," Blaise pointed out.

"Well, I am hoping that this one won't die," Louisa snapped. Harry stiffened, pulling a way a bit. "Oh, hush dear. I'm mad at Blaise, not you," she soothed. "You're always an angel, and you look quite lovely."

What he was, was uncomfortable. His hair was in a low ponytail that had _beads_ in it, which would have been fine on its own since the Flamels both wore beads in their hair and beards, which was tolerably cool-looking. However, Louisa had forced him to have all of his various jewelry on, regardless of how girly he found it. The ear cuff that Luna had given him and a bracelet wrap of jade beads that he and Blaise had found in the market were the most prominent, but Whisper was also revealed by the sleeveless black robe that was open over his _subfusc_ curled delicately around Harry's right upper arm, and Surana was practically preening from her new favourite position around Harry's left arm and shoulders.

"Thanks, I guess," Harry said dubiously. He felt strange without books in the pockets of his robes, but Louisa had taken them all.

"You'll both be fine. I've invited the Lovegoods, of course, and a few of your teachers run in the same circles as I do," she soothed. "Now, I have to play hostess. Will you both behave if we go inside?"

"Of course I will, Louisa," Harry said, surprised. Louisa had done so much for him that she couldn't possibly expect that he wouldn't be on his best manners during a party she hosted.

"Yes, Mother," said Blaise. He didn't look particularly pleased, however. Louisa sighed, looking back at Blaise’s sullen expression. "I know you don’t wish to meet him, bambino. I’m asking only that you tolerate being in the same room."

"I thought we agreed I wouldn't have to meet them unless they survive," Blaise said pointedly.

"You don't have to meet them," Louisa repeated. "Just don't make a scene."

Blaise shook his head, grabbing Harry by the hand and pulling him forward. "Whatever."

As the doors parted, the full splendor of the courtyard came into view. There were twinkling lights that reflected off of the purple of the lavender that was planted everywhere within view, and high society witches and wizards dressed in all their filmy summer finery milled about. Over all this, there was a backdrop of soaring violins from the quartet Louisa had hired for the duration. Blaise stopped after only a few yards, scanning over the crowd. Harry could see Narcissa flitting from one group to the next, greeting people with a gentle touch and an air kiss here and there with a smile that never quite made it to her eyes. Draco, he couldn't see anywhere.

"Come on," Blaise said curtly, dropping Harry’s arm and navigating his way through a gaggle of older witches until they managed to reach a table that had been tucked into the far right corner. Here, Draco presided over the younger crowd with the shadow of his mother's grace, patting Nott on the shoulder as he made some sort of whip smart comment to what Harry supposed was Zacharias Smith, though he could only see the other boy’s rigid back.

"Harry!"

Harry heard Blaise begin to grumble when Luna detached herself from peering into the hedges and floated over like an excited fairy. She threw her arms around him almost immediately, her head a bare few centimeters below his. Last year, she had been embarrassingly taller at the beginning of the year.

"Luna!" Harry greeted, smiling as he pried her off. "How's your summer going? I loved your letters. They were... interesting."

Luna gave him a blinding smile. "Oh, my summer is going quite well," she replied. "Father and I have been spending the summer ghost hunting."

"Really? Have you found many ghosts?" Harry missed the sight of ghosts wandering the halls of Hogwarts very much, but since the bones of all of the Hogwarts ghosts-- and those of many of the ghosts across Britain in general-- had been burned by the Dark Lord last year, the only one Harry had seen lately was the Grey Lady, patron of Ravenclaw. She was very quiet and was neither seen nor heard much on an ordinary day, much less when many of her fellows had been burned from existence. Come to think of it, could her title of Grey Lady be because she had attempted to take the official title, or was it a coincidence?

Luna nodded in answer to his question, drawing his attention back to the conversation at hand. "Yes, but they were not happy to be discovered. They are very frightened because of what happened last year."

"Harry!" Harry was greeted again, this time by Mandy and Padma. His fellow Ravenclaws were a welcome sight after a summer sending letters back and forth about the possible implications of a certain arithmantic principle as pertained to the study of alchemy. The next several minutes were spent in a flurry of greetings. In addition to the Ravenclaw girls, Padma was accompanied by her Gryffindor sister, Pavarti; Zacharias Smith from Hufflepuff was also in attendance, glowering at everyone and making snide comments about the h'ors d'ouerves. Several older students who Harry wasn't as familiar with were also in attendance.

"I'm so jealous that you get to spend the entire summer in Positano," Mandy said enviously. "I only get to spend the last week with Padma."  
"And trust me, being shut up with my sister alone all summer is no picnic," Padma added, shooting Pavarti a glare. The other girl turned up her nose in response. Although the twins got along well enough at Hogwarts, Harry knew that Padma thought Pavarti was quite silly.

The evening went on, Blaise glaring over at his mother's fiancé with ill-grace, Draco presiding over the upcoming class of third- and fourth-years with finesse, and Lady Malfoy performing hostess duties joint with Louisa with no small amount of elegance and good nature. Harry was largely quiet unless directly spoken to, but after maybe an hour, he found himself approached by two of his favourite people at Hogwarts.

"Well-met, Lord Potter!" Professor Flamel boomed merrily.

"Lovely to see you, Harry," Professor Perenelle Flamel said, her smile almost hidden by her beard. "Those hair beads look wonderful on you, though you might research the dwarvish meanings when inclined."

"Professors Flamel!" He grinned at them delightedly, reaching over to shake hands energetically. The Flamels were both wonderful teachers, though Perenelle wasn't going to be able to continue her tenure as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year due to her credentials being a hundred years or so out of date. They had both taken him under their wing as a student last year. "How has your summer been?" he asked.

"Terrible!"

Perenelle rolled her eyes. "Lovely. We traveled to the mountains in Scandinavia to visit some relatives, and since we returned, we've been working on tracing the ley lines in Britain. They've gone odd in a few places."

"Like at the Ministry." Harry had seen the Ministry's ley lines the one time he had connected to them last year. They had seemed a bit thinner than the others, and had been entirely choked with black chains.

Perenelle gave him a sharp look. "Yes, the Ministry is one of the nodes that seems to have been affected. You haven't been connecting more with the lines, have you?"

Harry shook his head fervently, a little worried by the glint in her eye. "No, I saw it on New Year's when Percy woke up, that's all."

"When Percy woke up? Mr. Weasley?" That was Professor Flamel.

"Yes…. The lines surged at one point while I was connected and I think Percy woke up then."

The Flamels exchanged a look, obviously considering this significant for some reason. Now that they were pointing it out, Harry could see it too: if the movement of the ley lines around Harry was what made him seem like a potential Grey Lord to so many, what was the implication that Percy might be affected by them as well? Could he be another Grey Lord potential? Or Light, or Dark? More than that, did he _know_? Harry wouldn't put it past him to know and not say a word. Percy had been strange lately.

If they knew the answers, Harry doubted that the Flamels would tell him. "Are we still having lessons on the same days this year?" he asked instead.

"Yes, and Severus will have you Wednesdays," Perenelle said, "though mum's the word on that. I believe Flitwick wants to discuss your schedule with you in person this year."

"This is because I tried to sign up for so many of the classes, isn't it." Harry frowned. It was just that there were so many interesting classes. He didn't want to miss learning anything that it was possible to learn, and although taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes was imperative to the study of alchemy, Magical Creatures was also an incredible subject, and he didn't want to miss out on Divination since it concerned ley lines….

"It'll work out," Perenelle said mysteriously. "I should have more time to tutor you, Draco, and Neville as well, since my duties as Defense professor are going to be taken over by an old student of Albus'. I believe Remus was even a friend of your parents, so perhaps he might agree to tell you about them when you meet him during Defense." She nodded over at Louisa. "Excuse us, I want to make our greetings to the hostess."

Harry bowed his head a bit, smiling, and the two dwarves made their way across the party. He was actually somewhat surprised that they had managed to come out without their usual accompaniment of axes, but even dwarves had to be willing to set down their weapons for a party.

"What was that about?" Blaise asked. His tone was still a bit grumpy. Harry patted him absently on the shoulder.

"Tell you later."

His attention was caught by Surana's quiet, "The smelly potions professor is here, Ssspeaker." The tall, dour figure of Professor Snape had entered the garden with a sweep of black robes and hair. Professor Snape had the best way of getting his robes to billow and snap, but Harry had never been able to figure out how he did it.

"Probably not the place," Harry continued his previous statement absently, tracing Snape's trajectory over to Narcissa, who he actually managed a smile for when he kissed her hand, and Louisa. His look toward Louisa's betrothed was wary, but he grasped the man's hand all the same, saving his actual pleasantries for Louisa.

"Professor Snape actually came. I'm surprised." That was Draco, who had drawn away from his coterie to lean over their shoulders.

"Why? Doesn't he usually go to your family's parties?"

"Mother may be hosting, but this is a Zabini party, which means it's Grey, not Dark. Crossover is allowed, but people don't often actually do it."

"Hm."

Professor Snape had disappeared from view for a moment and came back with a drink in hand. As he looked out over the crowd, his expression was long-suffering before he caught Harry's stare and his eyes narrowed.

"Oh no." Harry stood very still as Professor Snape approached him. Although Snape had mostly been civil to him over the last year, Harry still found the professor intimidating. When Snape was within hearing distance, Harry let out a sigh and a short bow. "Professor Snape," he greeted. "I hope your summer's been well."

"Much better for not seeing students," Snape said acidly.

"I imagine so, since students are your work. Most people don't want to work in their time off." Harry smiled; Snape's eyes narrowed. In the past, simple, sensical statements like this had seemed to stump Snape. Harry had given up on the 'why' of it in favour of enjoying the results. Harry suspected that Snape wanted people to take offense to what he said, and when they didn't give him the reaction he wanted, he was quite disappointed.

"I see that the holiday has only increased your wit." Snape's eyes locked with his; Harry began to feel the insidious press of Snape's mind against his, but without making a scene, he wouldn't be able to actually push Snape out. Instead, he had to stand there while Snape edged around the defenses he had built. After a moment, the pressure went away. "You haven't been neglecting your exercises."

Harry shook his head. "You sound surprised. Apparently, I'm still slipping when I sleep, though, even though I meditate to build them right before bed."

"We'll work on it when you return to school." Snape paused. "Alastor Moody was most displeased not to find you at your aunt and uncle's house when he returned."

Harry tensed. "I was most displeased that he threatened the Zabinis and made a scene at my house."

"Moody was never any good at keeping his temper."

Their voices were quiet enough that they were close to drawing attention simply by being too soft-spoken during a party. Since Professor Snape wasn't officially meant to be giving Harry Occlumency lessons, this was somewhat less than ideal.

Snape stepped back. "Watch out for yourself, Mr. Potter," he said formally, turning to go. "Given the circumstances, you very well might not make it back to Hogwarts to get your lessons at this rate."

"Because of the Dark Lord, the escape of Sirius Black, or my own supposed recklessness?" Harry asked wryly.

Actually smiling at that, Snape's answer was one word: "Yes." Harry thought that he would actually leave on only that, but the next sentence came as a surprise, shot over Snape's shoulder like a poisonous dart. "Sirius Black always was a bully. Your mother never liked him much."

Had Snape known his mother? He had said things before that made it almost seem like that was so, but Harry didn't know much about his parents beyond what was printed in history books. This had to be the first time that Harry felt like books had failed him.

 

* * *

 

The next several days were an almost desperate blur as the boys tried to pack as much enjoyment into their remaining free time as they could. Nott had left after the party, but Blaise and Draco dragged Harry to buy discs for the Sing-spinner, bootleg versions of Muggle artists like the Violent Femmes, the Buzzcocks, Joy Division, and the Ramones. Harry found being separated from his books oddly tolerable when he was able to listen to the Buzzcocks declare that reality was a dream. Yet time did pass, and soon enough they were standing on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, again being hugged, kissed, and warned by Lady Malfoy and Louisa before they made their way onto the Hogwarts Express.

The train was as crowded as ever. Owls were hooting, cats yowling, and Lee Jordan's tarantula ended up on some poor unsuspecting girl's head. Her shrieks echoed down the corridor until her friend clapped a hand over the girl's mouth and flung the tarantula at Lee, who caught it with a laugh. Harry could barely get more than two paces down the train without being greeted by _someone_ , leading Draco to push ahead to try to find an empty compartment for them while there still was one. All of the Ravenclaws greeted them, a decent number of the Slytherins, and a handful of Hufflepuffs. In comparison, the Gryffindors all made sure to boast that they were going to win the snow battles as soon as winter came.

"You're too popular," Blaise said, once they finally reached the compartment at the end that Draco was waving them into. "How are you _possibly_ going to study this year with such an active social life?"

Harry blinked. Blaise's arch tone was very amused, and at his expense. "Really? I think they're only excited to be back. They said hello to you too."

Blaise just raised his eyebrows. He had managed to grow even taller over the last month they had been together, and the top of Harry's head just reached his shoulder. Something about that, combined with the way he was looking down at Harry with amusement, made Harry's stomach twist.

Books. Books, not kissing, and especially not kissing _Blaise_ : that was what he should think about. He wasn't going to be stupid enough to risk a friendship on a silly, hormonal whim. Even if the urge had been happening more and more frequently lately, something which was just _not on_. And now Surana was giving this hissing laugh, clearly more in tune with Harry's thoughts than he wanted her to be.

"Oh, shut it," Harry said to both her and Blaise. He thrust his trunk at the other boy and sat down. "If you're going to be so… tall, put my trunk up for me."

Blaise's brow furrowed, nose crinkling, but Harry decided to ignore how charming that was. Draco had picked up Nott somewhere along the way, who was ensconced next to Harry with a blanket and a book. He was more than half-asleep, and was using the book as a pillow. Draco sat on the bench across. There was another person in the compartment too: a tired-looking man, probably not much older than his early thirties if that, with silver threaded through his hair and a particularly battered suitcase and set of robes. The suitcase had a nameplate which read: Professor R.J. Lupin.

"Well." Harry looked from the nameplate to the man's face carefully, since this must have been the 'Remus' that Perenelle had mentioned knew his parents. The man was dead asleep, ashen pale and drawn-looking.

"Well what?" Draco asked promptly. "Blaise, _Merlin_ \-- you need to be careful where you're swinging that around." Blaise just grumbled, pushing the trunk a little more firmly into the overhead compartment.

Harry had spent a lot of time reading legends, myths, and fairy tales over the years. He read them whenever he was bored or scared, tired or sick, and Roman myths had been a particular favourite because of how easy it was to find different versions of them. Romulus and Remus had been raised by a wolf, and had gone on to found Rome, with Romulus killing Remus when they disagreed over where Rome should be located. Alone, it wasn't too strange of a name in comparison to other wizarding names he had heard, but when it was paired with the last name it was a different matter. Lupin, of course, sounded an awful like lupus, another Roman word, which meant wolf. There had been a blue moon in August, too, the last one ending just yesterday… but no, that would be too on the nose, wouldn't it?

"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head. "Do you think he's the new professor?"

Blaise shrugged, settling at last on the seat next to Draco. "I can't see why he would be on the train otherwise," he pointed out. "Though why he didn't Floo, fly, or apparate like the other professors, I don't know."

"I'm not surprised, given that the Headmaster already had a guard set on Privet Drive. He's probably supposed to be keeping an eye on me, though he looks exhausted."

Harry looked the man over once more, noting that his nails were a little dark and just a touch more claw-like than seemed normal. He _couldn't_ be a werewolf. Unless maybe he had been born into it? Otherwise why would his parents have named him that?

"The Weasleys are late," Draco observed, nodding at the window. "They're probably holding up the train at this point." His tone was carefully not combative, a stark contrast to last year when he had gone out of his way to fight everyone and everything Gryffindor.

"They were in Egypt. Maybe they just barely got back." Harry looked out the window, down at the platform. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were smothering the children with affection before they managed to escape to the train, one by one, until all that was left was Percy. Like Fred had relayed, Percy had shaved his head at some point over the summer, leaving only a ginger stubble. He looked almost regal in a way that he hadn't before, dignified and solemn, with his skin tanned golden from holiday and his phoenix on his shoulder. Harry could already hear whispers down the train about him. It appeared that people still hadn't exhausted their supply of gossip about the Weasley boy who had been in a coma.

Mr. Weasley clasped his son's hand awkwardly. Mrs. Weasley patted his cheek, stroking over his hair with a displeased frown. And then Percy was gone from view, stepping onto the train. Harry turned away before he could get much of a glimpse of the distraught expressions on the Weasley parents' faces. It felt too much like intruding.

There was a knock on the door not moments later. Harry half-expected Percy for some reason, but instead it was Luna, drifting in and wedging herself between Blaise and Draco. The train whistle blew, and they lurched into motion.

The man sleeping on the bench never even woke up.

 

* * *

 

The train rattled on over the countryside, which grew dark early due to oncoming storms. When the lamps turned on, Harry took to watching Draco and Luna play chess. Luna seemed to have no strategy whatsoever, but she kept thoroughly trouncing Draco every time he thought that he had the upper hand. Harry had moved over to sit with Blaise to be in a better position to watch, and Blaise fell asleep, headphones over his ears and one arm over his eyes. His head rested on Harry's thigh, and Harry could hardly be expected to resist tugging on the curls. Luna was the only one that noticed, of course, and it almost wasn't worth her knowing smile.

Just as they were nearing the castle enough that they should have changed to their school robes, the train began to slow.

"This isn't the Hogsmeade platform," Nott said, peering out the window. It was too dark outside and too bright inside for him to be able to see much more than his reflection, but he was clearly going to try anyway.

Blaise's eyes immediately opened and he exchanged a look with Harry. Harry was barely able to hold the glance, given that Blaise had apparently not been asleep while he had his hands on the other boy's hair like he was a bloody girl, but he got the Blaise's point well enough: they should be on their guard.

"Ssssomething feels off, Speaker," Surana warned. She moved from where she sat on his lap, twining herself around his upper body. "Be on guard."

"Everyone know where their wands are, just in case?" Harry asked the group, searching for his own as she had advised. Nott shot him a confused look, but the others took his meaning and put their wands into their hands. The lamps flickered, and then went out.

Immediately, a clamour arose from the other compartments. Someone shrieked, and there was a rush of footsteps as everyone moved to crowd the windows, shouting back and forth across to their neighbours.

"What is going _on_?" Nott grumbled.

Luna moved to look out the window as well, pulling Draco with her. Beyond them, outside the window, Harry could now see things beginning to move. "Nothing very good," she said lightly. "Best brace yourself, else we'll be overtaken by Snaffledorfs."

"Professor Lupin," Harry said firmly, looking across the pitch black compartment to where the professor still lay. He received no answer. "Professor," he repeated, louder. The man twitched and began to rise.

"The train has stopped." His voice was pleasant enough, but it had a hint of a growl to it.

Harry put aside his hypothesis that Professor Lupin was a werewolf to be annoyed instead. "Yes, that much is obvious. There's something outside." The clamour grew louder as he heard the train doors open at the far end. The door to their compartment opened in the next moment, too, and Harry tensed before he recognized the tall figure that had appeared. "Percy. What's going on?"

Percy shook his head. Harry wouldn't have been able to see the motion at all if the phoenix, Jeanne, hadn't glowed with her own light in the dark. "Evil," he said gruffly. "So Jeanne says, anyway. The prefects are checking on everyone. Are you all right in here?"

"So far," Harry allowed.

"Not everyone. The chessboard hit my foot when I stood up," Draco complained.

From beside him, Luna's laugh came tinkling out of the gloom. "I think you'll survive. And you should know there's no such thing as evil, Percy Weasley. All's well that ends well, after all, regardless of how we get there."

"Feelsss evil," Surana hissed, glaring balefully at Luna. Her body had grown rigid around Harry's neck and arm, her breath hot in his ear.

"Everyone quiet," Lupin ordered. His face was lit by a glow from his wand. Harry cast a quiet Lumos as well, and then he listened, as did they all. Where before there had been shrieking, gossiping, shouting, and shoving, silence was now spreading like a disease. It rippled down the train until everything hushed besides a soft sound, somewhere distant, that Harry could swear was someone weeping.

The compartment door opened again. This time, the figure was taller even than Percy, enshrouded in dark grey robes. The hand that had reached out to open the door was sickly, skin scabbed over and with nails that twisted and spiraled in on themselves. The hooded head looked around the compartment, actual face invisible, until the creature took a breath that rattled like the wind over bones.

Dimly, he heard Percy's knees hit the ground and then a light blazed.

 _There was a woman screaming. He felt his heart sink, because she couldn't be afraid. If she was afraid, he should be terrified, because she was so_ strong _. She always made him feel safe, no matter what, so how could she be so scared right now? "P-please," she begged. "Please, not Harry."_

"Harry, please wake up. Wake up!"

The first thing Harry saw was Blaise's face, grown a muddy kind of pale until it was the shade of particularly weak coffee, and the second was Surana swaying beside him with a worried hiss coming from her throat. Blaise's eyes were so wide they seemed to take up half of his face, staring down at Harry through those ridiculously long lashes that he had inherited from his mother. "I'm awake," he said, reaching out for Blaise's hand for help up. Surana pulled herself around his neck like a stole again, complaining the entire time.  "Was someone… screaming?"

"Who wasn't screaming?" Draco said. His voice shook, though, and at his side, Luna was patting his shoulder gently. Her own face was pale, but calm.

Harry rubbed his arms up and down, feeling particularly cold. He had sweated through his robes, and besides was still wearing a sleeveless casual one that revealed Whisper, who was hissing almost constantly now in fear. Blaise hugged him around the shoulders, tucking Harry into his side, and Harry leaned in as his shivers finally began to abate.

"I don't understand. What… what happened?"

Nott, who was probably the one in the best shape next to Blaise, shrugged. "Well, Weasley had a fit worse than you, which pissed the phoenix right off-- pardon me, professor."

A smile quirked on Professor Lupin's lips. "I didn't hear a word. Continue on, Mr. Nott."

Nott gave him a brief smile in return. "Right, yes. The phoenix made it very bright, so the Dementor backed off a bit, but then it came back while she was distracted crying on him. It started over to Draco and Lovegood, but it stopped for some reason, and then Professor Lupin did a spell, a Patronus charm, I believe, and sent it on its way."

"That was a Dementor?" Harry had heard of Dementors, of course. Luna had wanted to discuss their living conditions with Riddle at the last Yule party at Malfoy Manor. They guarded Azkaban, from which Sirius Black had escaped.

"Yes," Professor Lupin said. He sighed as he sat down, looking immensely weary. "Here, everyone should have some chocolate. It combats their effects." He began to pass out bits of it, broken off of a rather large chocolate bar.

Harry took his, distracted, and asked, "But why were they on the train? Unless it's because Sirius Black is guessed to be after me, but I can hardly see Hogwarts allowing their presence on the grounds. They're a Dark being, aren't they? And given their effect on students, I really don't think--"

Blaise elbowed him, gesturing toward the chocolate. Harry rolled his eyes and popped it in his mouth, enjoying the way warmth was trickling back into his chest. The only one that hadn't spoken yet, of course, was Percy, who had taken a seat at some point. Jeanne was crooning at him, her wings sheltering him almost entirely from view as he stared out the window.

When Harry looked back at Professor Lupin, the way the professor's gaze lingered over how close he and Blaise were standing made Harry shift awkwardly. He wondered if he ought to move further away now that he felt a bit better. "Yes, perhaps," Lupin said in response to Harry's babble. "You'll have to excuse me-- I should talk to the driver and see if we might get going again."

Draco snorted, still looking ill-at-ease. "This is one way to begin a year, I suppose," he said gloomily.

"Chin up," said Luna cheerily. "It can only get worse."

Everyone groaned in response to that. Sometimes, Luna just wasn't very comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am theoretically on hiatus for Camp NaNoWriMo-- shh, don't tell my original work that I'm over here with Common Sense! But once I managed to get over the block I was having about this chapter, I thought I should grab the opportunity.
> 
> Hmm... other thoughts.... I'm bummed that I don't have Harry and Blaise set to get together until the end of fifth year, since Harry is officially crushing hard on Blaise. They both have too much to work through to manage it any time soon anyway, and they pine so beautifully, but the slow burn seems very slow today. Don't worry about Percy too much, since he is officially on the road to being a useful part of the plot and I am VERY excited about what he'll be doing this year (and next year, but we're not there yet). Sensical is not a word but it should be. OH and I do not apologize for Harry immediately realizing what Remus is. Remus' name is ridiculous. Like Harry, I somewhat instantly suspected what it meant when I first read the books.
> 
> If anyone wants to speculate on Louisa's true love, feel free to speculate since I'm currently trying to work it out in my brain, which is arguing back and forth between a couple different options right now.
> 
> * Editing note, 4/17/18: I have clarified some dialogue in Dream-Quest (chapter 20) and Flat-Footed (chapter 27) so that it is clear that, just as there have only been potential Light and Grey Lords in the past, the Dark Lords have thus been "potential" as well ever since the original Three Lords were killed.


	29. [Year Three] Elf-Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A number of difficult conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual content.

After Dementors board your train on your way to school, a significant amount of gossip is only to be expected. There was the buzz of rumours back and forth for the rest of the trip, which was mercifully short. All of those in Harry's compartment barely had time to change into their school robes before they were arriving again at the Hogwarts train platform by the Great Lake and were shuffling off the train once more.

Harry spent all of this time deep in thought, barely noticing when Professor Lupin came back again to shove more chocolate at all of them. Dementors were the guards of Azkaban, the wizarding prison. Sirius Black was on the loose and said to be hunting Harry. He knew both of those things. Sirius Black was his godfather, said to have betrayed his parents to the Dark Lord a decade ago. He knew that too. Harry could even see what Black might gain from it-- the House Black was a historically Dark family, and Black had famously fallen out with his family. If he wanted to get into their good graces again, betraying the Potters would be as good a way as any. The history books spoke about such theories in depth when the authors were pondering how the war had ended. But Black had been put away without a trial, and how had he escaped Azkaban, anyway? Something didn't seem quite right there. And Perenelle Flamel had said that Professor Lupin knew his parents. If he had known Harry's parents, had he known Black?

And who had been screaming?

How Harry had gotten off the train and ended up in a carriage with Blaise, Percy, and Luna would forever be a mystery to him. One reason was likely because he and Percy were easily steered after the events of the train. Percy's brow as furrowed, as if he was contemplating a difficult problem in depth, and Harry was definitely contemplating a difficult problem in depth, thus, the large blank in his memory between exiting the train and entering the carriage. Nevertheless, in the carriage he was, staring out the window. Though he could generally only see the ley lines through the corners of his eyes, Hogwarts was so bright that he had sparks all along the edges of his vision. It seemed to grow brighter as they approached, as warm and welcoming as a hearthfire. Jeanne was flying beside the carriage, the sunset shining over her feathers.

"Something's… does anyone else hear something singing?" Percy's words broke the silence suddenly.

"Blaise's headphones are a bit loud." Curious, Harry looked at Blaise, who tugged down his headphones and turned down the Song-spinner. At the corner of his eye, the energy tendrils that connected Percy to the earth-- as they did all wizards-- seemed to pulse, almost in time with Hogwarts.

"Hogwartssss always sings," Surana said, rubbing her head against Harry's cheek. "It's not new, Speaker." Harry raised his eyebrow, but didn't want to reply in Parseltongue in front of Percy. _He_ had never heard Hogwarts sing before.

Luna smiled. "It's the Elf-song." She hummed a snatch of tune and Percy's eyes lit up.

"Yes, that's it! But it's not--"

"Real?"

"No, of course it's real," Percy scoffed. "It's just that it's a dream, and they don't usually show up here often."

"What are you talking about?" The carriage knocked over a particular large rock and Harry slid into Blaise. He inched his way back over the bench, bracing his back against the window so that he could watch Percy.

"There's a place, in the Dreamworld--" If Percy was actually going to talk about the Dreamworld, Harry needed a notebook, and a Quick Quotes quill, and to stop breathing so that he could hear better, because it had been _centuries_ since someone actually remembered going there. "--in the Drethazi mountains. There's a city of dark-elves, who missed the ships to Elphyne. The way their magic works is that they sing." He frowned, looking distant, than raised his palm. " _Light_ ," he sang quietly, and a flickering blue-green ghost light appeared in his hand, like foxfire over the marshes in a fairy tale. "They-- they taught me some, while I was waiting to be able to wake up." Astounded, he stared at the light in his hand. "I hadn't expected it would work here." He closed his hand and the light vanished.

Harry could hear it then, the greeting song of Hogwarts as the ley line node shuddered. The energy around Percy almost seemed to quake as well, forming what almost looked like the shape of a sword.  Harry could feel an energy too, making the air around him shiver like an invisible ghost had passed by.

"She missed us," Luna said. She turned dreamy eyes to Hogwarts, humming under her breath.

"I sometimes wonder about the company I keep," Blaise said drolly. "You realise how starkers you all sound?" Harry shoved him, making him laugh and Surana protest at being jostled. The carriage rolled to a stop and they piled out.

"Everyone in, please," Percy called above the chattering crowd as the other carriages began to empty. Jeanne dove down, landing on his shoulder with a thump. Percy barely rocked under her weight. "Ron, please keep track of Scabbers-- he seems to be taking off. Lee, leave Pavarti alone. Can none of you wait until the year has begun to start making trouble?"

They separated, Luna heading inside with a pleased expression on her face, Blaise off with the Slytherins, and Percy nearly inside before both he and Harry were stopped with a tug.

"Harry! We heard you'd taken ill on the train!" Flitwick squeaked. He was bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet, eyes wide. At his side were Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, both women with grim looks in their eyes.

"You're all right, Mr. Weasley?" Professor McGonagall inquired, gesturing Madam Pomfrey forward to start sending diagnosing spells at a dumbfounded Percy. The students parted to go around them as they headed inside, giving them wildly curious looks that made Harry blush at the attention. When Madam Pomfrey's hands twitched toward her little vials and packets of herbs that she had around her waist, Harry took a step back. He had a healthy respect for Madam Pomfrey and, more particularly, for her willingness to wear white trainers with her elaborate Mediwitch robes.

"We didn't take ill," Harry said as he edged away. Did adults never use logic and common sense if the alternative was to make a fuss instead? "The Dementors on the train caused what I understand to be an expected reaction, considering the powers they have." He thought for a moment, trying to recall what he had heard of the powers of Dementors. "Isn't it their job to suppress the prisoners of Azkaban by stealing happy memories as a substitute for a soul, which is their preferred food? Are they malnourished if they aren't eating souls? Are happy memories as good for them? Who's negotiating on their behalf at Azkaban? Is it illegal for them to steal our happy memories on the train, considering that we didn't consent to their being taken?"

"Mr. Potter, you and Mr. Weasley had a particularly strong reaction--"

"Something that presents itself if there is an overwhelming number of bad memories or a dearth of good memories." Harry blushed. "Sorry for interrupting, professor. It's just that it seems that most of the sixth and seventh years might be similarly affected by the Dementors as well, since they would have been at a really… a really impressionable age during the first war with the Dark Lord."

"The _first_ war, Mr. Potter?"

Harry perked up at that. Professor McGonagall was tense, but not surprised. As Headmaster Dumbledore's second-in-command at the school, it wouldn't surprise Harry if she were his second-in-command for whatever resistance movement the headmaster might be attempting to run as well.

"I misspoke." He judged by the sharp looks both McGonagall and Percy pinned him with that they weren't convinced with his nonchalance. Weaponized stern looks must be a Gryffindor thing, since Professor Flitwick had no such look on his face.

"Regardless, Harry, we're to meet with the headmaster regarding your schedule!" Flitwick smiled broadly, the entire thing appearing to pass, literally, over his head. "A very exciting year ahead for you and-- Miss Granger!"

"Lovely, she's arrived." Professor McGonagall beckoned Hermione forward from her carriage, where Hermione began to look distinctly worried that she was in trouble. "If you could take her for me while I deal with Mr. Weasley."

"I'm fine." Percy took a deep breath, shaking his head. "I've already received both chocolate and phoenix tears, so there is hardly anything else you can do for me. I do appreciate your concern, though."

Professor McGonagall crossed her arms over her chest, clearly somewhat taken aback. Percy would likely have never spoken to a professor in such a way before his coma and the Dreamworld, but Harry had noticed that he had become unpredictable in the months since. His tone wasn't hostile or rude, but it was definitely more straightforward than people were accustomed to hearing from the previously-obsequious Gryffindor.

"We'll have to notify your parents--"

"I'm of age, and I would prefer that you not," Percy retorted calmly. While he proceeded to argue with both Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, who was poking him with her wand and ignoring his complaints, Harry and Hermione allowed themselves to be shuffled inside by Professor Flitwick.

As ever, walking into Hogwarts was like coming home. Harry let it wash over him before turning to Hermione. "Did you have a good summer?" he asked politely, hoping for the best. Hermione, like Percy, hadn't had the best time last year. As she hadn't been in a magically-induced coma, it had been better than Percy's, but Harry had witnessed her crying more than once. Harry always found it deeply discomforting when people cried around him.

"Very good!" she exclaimed. "My parents and I went to France, which of course meant that I could practice my French, and they had some stupendous book stores besides."

"Really?" Harry asked, brightening. "Did you have any good finds?"

"Oh, loads. The wizarding community is well-established in London, but even more so in Paris. I was able to find some terrific texts that hadn't been translated from the original Greek or Latin into English, but had been translated into French."

"Anything in particular?"

Hermione was just about to launch into what was sure to be a long list of books when Flitwick awkwardly cleared his throat, gesturing to the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's Office. "I'm afraid we've arrived. Chocolate Frogs." The words made the gargoyle step aside, revealing the staircase up to Headmaster Dumbledore's office.

Harry felt that the headmaster's winding stone staircase was now more familiar to him than he would have liked. It wasn't that he had necessarily been up it very often, but more than once seemed like far too much for someone who wasn't a troublemaker. Professor Flitwick followed him and Hermione, talking brightly about French wizardry traditions, and soon enough, they were arriving to Professor Dumbledore's benevolent welcome. He was sitting behind his desk, portraits of former headmasters all around him, and a phoenix on his shoulder. It would have seemed like quite a powerful and strong image to someone who hadn't spent all their time reading history books and noticing how leaders always tried to look powerful in subtle ways whenever they could. Harry sometimes analysed professional portraits of rulers for fun, which he as only slightly embarrassed about.

"Good evening, headmaster," Harry said. At Dumbledore's nod, he crossed to one of the comfortable chairs in front of the headmaster's desk.

"Yes, g-good evening," Hermione stammered. She joined Harry more tentatively, ducking her head so that her thick hair almost covered her face.

Professor Dumbledore smiled warmly, peering at them over the top of his spectacles with twinkling eyes. "Mr. Potter. Ms. Granger. Welcome back to Hogwarts! I trust you both had a splendid holiday?"

"That seems accurate, sir," said Harry. "And was yours similar?"

"Oh, quite." Dumbledore smiled wider, and in a younger man it probably would have been called a roguish grin. "I keep myself busy, Mr. Potter. Please, both of you, do take a seat. Ah, Minerva!" Professor McGonagall had arrived to join Professor Flitwick to stand at the back of the room. "I suppose, with Minerva's arrival, we must get down to business. We will soon have a sorting ceremony to attend, after all. As the two of you know, you are the brightest students of your year. Because of this, when we learned that the number of classes you each wished to take would normally be impossible with your current schedules, we decided to make allowances."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, folding her hands in her lap.

"He means, my dear," said Professor McGonagall triumphantly, "that we've been able to get the both of you Time-Turners."

"Yes, Time-Turners." Dumbledore gave each of them a tiny, sparkling hourglass on a long chain. "These devices are normally used only in the Ministry for various purposes, but we were able to requisition them so you might attend all the classes you desire. They, quite literally, turn back time. Each turn is an hour, with these particular Time-Turners. Obviously, you may not interact with yourself, and must be careful to avoid paradoxes. Use them only to attend classes."

"Is that safe?" Hermione asked, studying the Time-Turner thoughtfully. Harry peered at his own necklace. He didn't want to touch it. He had seen Doctor Who, and if there was a device that could warp space-time and was normally kept under guard at the Ministry of Magic, it seemed a little foolish to hand it out to schoolchildren.

"We have faith in you two!" Professor Flitwick exclaimed.

"But-- they just released this for you to give to thirteen-year-olds? Instead of, I don't know-- we could have taken classes with other houses to fit them into our schedule? Or done independent study?"

"I'm sure you'll find them very useful this year. You never know when a little extra time might come in handy."

Harry reluctantly picked up the Time-Turner. It was clear that none of the adults were going to give him a reasonable explanation, so instead, he wondered idly if he would be able to charm it silver, since otherwise it was going to clash with his various other jewelry as well as Whisper.

"As long as you're certain that we won't tear a hole in the universe by accident." He held it up to Surana, who tasted it cautiously with her tongue and recoiled.

Hermione, who had apparently also watched Doctor Who, laughed at that comment. Dumbledore smiled even wider. "Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, if you would like to bring Ms. Granger to the Great Hall, Mr. Potter and I have one more matter to discuss."  
That sounded somewhat ominous. As the door clicked shut behind the other three, Harry was left facing down the headmaster with no more than the presence of Surana curled around his neck and Whisper around his arm.

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk, lifting Fawkes off his shoulder. Fawkes launched himself across the office and onto his perch. He was currently in resplendent plumage, perhaps redder than Percy's Jeanne, who had a good deal of gold in her feathers.

"I fear you may have put yourself in danger this summer, Harry," Dumbledore said, without fanfare. Surana gave an angry hiss, fortunately quiet enough that Dumbledore couldn't hear her. Harry was well-aware of her opinion on what had happened this summer.

"I fear that I was _put_ in danger this summer, but I reckon that's pretty much the same thing."  
Dumbledore frowned. "I'm aware that we haven't spent much time together, but I wonder if you aren't taking this as seriously as you ought."

Harry shook his head. "No, I am. My uncle hadn't known I was a wizard until the watcher on the corner started a fight in my living room. The watcher was yours, wasn't he, headmaster? Alastor Moody?"

Dumbledore laced his fingers together on the top of the desk, watching Harry carefully. His eyes stuttered briefly over the lump that was Surana, mostly hidden under his school robes, before making their way to Harry's eyes. His mind was a pressure against Harry's, but he didn't try to break in so much as read the surface, and fortunately he couldn't do that.

"He was watching you on my behest," he agreed at last. "We were most disturbed when it became clear that you had gone to visit with the Zabinis."

Was he… being serious? Harry was beginning to have doubts about Dumbledore's logic at this point. "With respect, professor, you realise that you aren't my guardian?" Harry laced his own fingers together, turning the silver ring that Louisa had gotten him in the marketplace around and around. "I had permission from my aunt to visit the Zabinis, as I have had every year since my first year here. I go to either the Lavender House in Positano or the Persephone House in London every vacation, since my aunt and uncle prefer for me to be away and I prefer to be with the Zabinis."

"This year, however, there is the matter of the escape of Sirius Black, and you know that Mr. Riddle has taken an interest in you." Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes serious. "It would be a terrible loss if something were to happen to you."

"I do know. But that still has nothing to do with you, not as I understand it." Harry paused. "I know that there are prophecies about me, but that's… that's my own business, isn't it? Wars aren't won or lost on the shoulders of one person. And you don't… no one has a right to me just because of a prophecy." Louisa had said as much, and Harry had to believe her. "Your watcher threatened the Zabinis, started a screaming fight in my aunt's living room, and I ended up having to sneak out after my aunt and uncle finally stopped fighting about her not telling him that I was a wizard.

"I apologize, Harry, but you are a very important individual. We need to keep you safe."

Harry shook his head, nearly dislodging Surana. She tightened her coils, poking her head out an inch to give Dumbledore a displeased, lidless stare.

"Ridiculous man," she muttered. "Speaker, I want to go to the feast. There isss food there."

Harry's lips twitched and he stroked his fingers over her back, trying to calm her. "I don't care about the watcher," he claimed, keeping his tone soft. "I didn't mind all summer. They were pretty obvious, sir. It wasn't a secret you were having them watch over me. I mind the fact that Moody attacked the Zabinis, threatened them, and then tried to stop me from going with them, the way that I already had permission to do from my guardian. And then that made my aunt and my uncle to fight, and he has a temper. I'm still not sure if she's all right. We don't send letters because she doesn't much like me, but I still worry. The way I figure it, the Zabinis, my aunt, and I are owed apologies."

The confrontation was making Harry's head spin, so he took a moment to break his gaze with Dumbledore. He felt it needed to be said, but he hadn't particularly liked saying it.

"You're right, of course." Harry looked up. "You are all owed apologies, and I do apologise. I will think about what you've said, Harry."

"Thank you," Harry said, and after that, there was really nothing more to say. He went down to the Welcome Feast and ate with his classmates, but had to wonder what, exactly, was Headmaster Dumbledore hoping to achieve with all this?

The question followed Harry into his dreams that night, and he slept fitfully. He did, however, spare a moment to wonder how Percy was sleeping, in light of his new revelations about elf-song and the Dreamworld. He knew that for him, it would be very strange for him to sleep if he was Percy.

 

* * *

 

 

Asleep, Percy had a conundrum of his own. Sometimes, when they were parted, Percy was sure that he was exaggerating his feelings for Tom. He would think that the tight feeling in his chest whenever he thought about the other boy was just him being overdramatic. Picturing Tom's wicked smile shouldn't make his mouth go dry. His skin shouldn't ache and crawl because he wanted Tom to touch him. His stomach shouldn't tense and twist because he wanted to have Tom's cheek against his, wanted to be whispering Tom's true name in his ear so that Tom shuddered too. But he did feel that way, and when he returned to the Dream World the first night that he was back at Hogwarts and tangled himself in Tom's arms, biting Tom's lower lip and sighing into his mouth, Percy felt everything wash away.

They traded kisses back and forth, Percy's hands in Tom's curls, Tom's hands warm against his back and neck. After several moments, Percy broke it off, burying himself against Tom's skin. For the first time in ages, it felt like he could relax.

"All right?" Tom asked, breathless. It was flattering to make an incubus breathless.

"Yes." Percy drew back, trying to memorize the image of Tom's face. It always changed in subtle ways, but the eyes were the one constant. They had been the first thing that had changed from his initial appearance as a mirror image of Riddle, and now they were steadfast.

In the beginning, when Percy had realised that he was able to still enter the Dreamworld even after awakening from the coma, time in the Dreamworld had matched the time passing in the real world. It had been terrible. It felt like he could barely get to sleep before he had to wake up again. Now, after some meandering conversations with Bill and Tom-- at different times, of course-- Percy could stay in the dream for days or weeks or months, all during the regular hours he slept in the World of Waking. He still wasn't always in control, but time in dreams could slip and slide as he needed it to. It still never felt like enough, somehow, but it was a start.

Percy smiled a bit, still tracing the curve of Tom's high cheekbones with his eyes. "You're the best dream, you know?"

Tom's face grew entirely too smug, but the blue eyes remained soft and kind. "Aren't I just?"

Nowadays, Percy's dreams usually started in Tom's little corner of the Dreamworld, a small cottage in Denore, which was south and past the Drethazi mountains. The bedroom in the cottage was where Percy had flickered to at some points during the Quest, when he had needed a rest, though he hadn't seen any of Denore besides the cottage while in the coma. Denore was kinder to incubi than the dark elves were, and easier for Percy to keep track of than Plarr, which was a very active portion of the Dreamworld. The little, desert-based province was full of djinn, oases, and quavering hallucinations that functioned as dreams within the dream. Percy was inordinately fond of Denore, which had fewer Dreamers and more permanent residents than some other areas did. It was all well and good until, of course, he found himself at the edge of a volcano or running from a monster and woke up at the most inconvenient time, but that could happen anywhere in the Dreamworld.

"You don't seem fine," Tom observed. His body sheltered Percy against the entryway of the cottage, skin pressed inch to inch.

Percy sighed. "Dementors," he said succinctly.

"What are those?"

Was Tom scamming him? He always knew everything. "They eat souls," Percy said, cautiously. "They were on my train back to school."

"Soul-Eaters were on your train to school?" Tom's eyes went hot and angry; Percy pressed his lips to Tom's jaw.

"It was fine. Jeanne was there." Percy shook his head. "It just reminded me…." Wanting more contact, he tucked a hand under Tom's shirt, pressing his flat palm to the other boy's taut belly. Tom's breath huffed out, brushing over Percy's ear. "I think-- I ought to use a Pensieve, like the headmaster wants."

"You don't have to show him everything," Tom concurred.

"It's funny. The Dementors show you your worst memories. And it didn't show me fighting in the war on Mars, or being burned, or eating with the hunters on the Plains of William. It showed me Riddle."

"He's a terrible being, your Riddle. Everything in him is rot and ruin, and…."

He seemed to want to trail off, but Percy narrowed his eyes. "And what?"

"And I think that what hurt you in the Dreamworld wasn't the Pig-Men burning you in the fire, but the fact that Jeanne betrayed you, like Riddle did."

A bell sounded, since the Dreamworld was terrible and liked to rub it in his face when someone else was right. Percy wrinkled his nose, displeased.

"Very well," he said. "You're apparently correct. I'm working on it." Bill keeping his confidence, thus far at least, had eased his mind somewhat, as had Bill's promise later on that Percy could tell him about what happened when Percy went to sleep whenever he wanted. Being able to talk about his life here as if he was actually living it did wonders for Percy's peace of mind.  Besides himself, Bill was probably one of the very few people who could describe the sunset over the Stage Curtains, or the taste of pomegranate tea while strolling through the Silah market in the Drethazi.

"Good," Tom said. He turned his face downward again with one hand gentle under Percy's chin as he lifted it up. His lips graced Percy's, soft and firm as he picked up where they left off.

Percy should probably tell Tom that he loved him, or confirm it, at least, since Tom seemed to know. But how could any one word describe how this felt?

They hadn't had sex since Percy had come back to the World of Waking. It was partly a matter of timing and partly a matter of Percy's shyness regarding the entire matter, and partly because Percy hadn't been in the emotional space to even think about it. But he felt better now.

Their clothes came off and his skin burned everywhere that Tom touched him. The dream made it blur, which was something that Percy was going to have to get control of, because he didn't want to miss a second of this, but-- there was Tom's taste on his tongue when Percy was on his knees-- there was the way his head hit back against the wall when Tom lifted him up-- the bite of Tom's teeth on his throat as he arched his back-- the tug of magic beneath his skin, pulling inexorably from him to Tom as the incubus fed off their passion.

The room shifted and they were in the bedroom, beneath silk sheets with Tom thrusting inside him, cock hammering into him and Percy's legs linked behind his back. His lips sealed over Percy's, the force of it pushing Percy back into the mattress. Percy couldn't breathe, his body caught in the rhythm of it even as the world swirled around him. Tom's hand pushed between Percy's legs, and when Percy's erection wasn't rubbing against Tom's body, Tom was stroking it, thumb rubbing the tender slit as he stared into Percy's eyes like he could see into his heart.

Percy _loved_ him. He just didn't know how to say it.

Head tucked against Tom's throat, climax shuddering through him and dream beginning to fade, Percy whispered, "I miss you when I wake up.

Tom's hand on the back of his neck: "I miss you, too."

Percy's bed was a mess when he woke and, cheeks flaming, he made a note that he would need to start setting Silencing Charms before bed.

 

* * *

 

The first full day of Hogwarts was always set aside for tours for first-years, meetings with professors, and general settling in. This year, the first day of classes was a Friday, which for Harry meant that he would be going to his first Divination class. The Time-Turner, sadly, he wouldn't have to use until Monday. Harry might be worried that he would tear a hole in the universe, but if it was going to happen anyway, he wanted to study it as soon as possible.

Following a harrowing double block of Potions, where Professor Snape had glowered and brooded as if the return of the students was a personal affront, Harry and the rest of the third year Ravenclaws who were taking Divination made their way up on staircase to the classroom Professor Trelawney had set up in the North Tower.

Professor Trelawney's classroom was _amazing_. It looked like something out of a fantasy story, covered in scarves, feathers, mismatched tea cups, and shining crystal balls. It smelled dreadful, however, since the professor seemed to have a love for smelly perfumes. Harry was glad that Surana had decided to explore the castle, since she would have been choking on the air. As it was, Whisper was giving his displeased hiss and tucking his head under Harry's arm.

Professor Trelawney herself was in a seat by the window. She looked a good bit like Hermione, if she had aged twenty or thirty years, with bushy, curly hair and thick glasses. She wore many layers of filmy robes and bead necklaces, her fingers be-ringed and her nails painted black.

"Welcome, students," she said, in a tone that was trying for Luna's dreamy, mystic tone and landed instead on the kind of fake, circus fortune-teller voice that the Durlseys had disapproved of that one time they had brought Dudley and Harry to the circus a few years ago. "Please, take your seats on any of these lovely chairs-- no, not there!" Terry, who had been just about to lower himself into a lush violet armchair bolted up. "Dreadful things will happen if you sit there!" Trelawney blinked a few more times, slowly and deliberately, until everyone gradually sat themselves.

"I am Professor Trelawney, as some of you may have Sensed. If you are here, you are pursuing the study of Divination, the greatest of the magical arts. No amount of study can give you the Sight, only innate talent and dedication. I will do my best to teach you, but I fear some of you will never achieve what you seek here." She stared pointedly at Morag McDougall, who rolled her eyes as soon as Trelawney looked away.

"This is a subtle art, and those talented in the flash and bang of Charms or Transfiguration may fail here. However, some of you show great promise already." She turned to Padma, who was poking at one of the empty tea cups on the table and not paying any attention. "We will begin with tea leaves, proceed to palmistry, progress to the crystal ball, and end with fire omens. Please, bring your tea cups up to me, as I have prepared tea, and we will begin our journey together."

They all filed forward, and Harry brought back a steaming cup of strong tea. While it cooled and they drank, Trelawney explained the basics of reading tea leaves, directing them to the relevant section in their books and informing them about how best to swirl their cups, imbue their leaves with their energies, and open their minds to possibility. Finally, they were split into pairs to read each other's cups, since "No one can ever read their own future with complete accuracy, since their personal involvement blocks their minds from the truth."

Needless to say, Harry doubted his professor quite profoundly by this point.

"You have a sun symbol," Harry said of Padma's cup, looking back and forth between the cup and _Unfogging the Future_. "It's a bit… splattered? So that might mean you're lucky. And you've got a book, which might mean I'm making stuff up because I like books, and might also mean enlightenment. Which, I guess, the sun could mean too?"

Padma stifled laughter. Harry could hear Terry swearing over in the corner, and Michael was scowling hard through the smoke and incense at him. "It's not that hard!" he was saying. "Get it over with-- I'm getting a headache."  
Padma took Harry's cup in her own hands. "Looks like… a skull, which is danger, so good luck there, and a crow, which means you're surrounded by people, but maybe no one's helping you, they're just laughing at you, or not taking you seriously…. You should be careful to get them laughing with you and not at you, since with them on your side, you can accomplish anything. Merlin, this is depressing."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly.

"It looks like… a Grim, too? They're big black dogs, so maybe it's just a dog. A Grim is a death omen, anyway, so let's just hope I'm reading this wrong, shall we?"

Trelawney appeared from the smoke like a wraith, making Padma jump back and knock the cup over. "My dear, take more care with the cups!" Trelawney said crossly. "I happened to see Harry's cup while you were reading it, and I have faith in your reading abilities. You clearly have the Sight, just like your sister Pavarti!" Padma's glare back as she righted the teacup was unimpressed. "Be careful this year, Harry, very careful."  
"I'm always careful, but thank you, professor," said Harry, humouring her. "Could I have some more tea?"

As Trelawney bustled away again to refill his cup, Harry wondered whether he should give her the benefit of the doubt or accept that she was cracked. He had been looking forward to Divination because of all the business with the prophecy, but this all seemed a little silly. There was hardly going to be a Grim anywhere in his future. He didn't even like dogs, after all.

 

* * *

 

ASSISTANT TO THE MINISTER HAS HIS DOUBTS

by Rita Skeeter

_In the light of the recent attacks in the Muggle Underground, Sirius Black's escape, the disappearance of the ghosts last year, and the continuing disappearances of many prominent witches and wizards across Britain, the Daily Prophet has seen fit to call upon Minister Fudge's office for a statement to the press. In response, his assistant, Tom Riddle, gave us an interview yesterday on Fudge's behalf. Mr. Riddle, devastatingly handsome, charming, and well-spoken, is clearly the brains behind the entire operation, but he struggles with a Minister who actively resists change. He would never say such a thing, as his professionalism is without peer, but it is the opinion of this journalist that Minister Fudge is more focused on making sure he is re-elected than he is on the numerous issues that we face at the present time. His lack of involvement hinders the poor Mr. Riddle, who is trying his best with what he is given. The interview follows verbatim._

_RS: Mr. Riddle, what is the Minister doing to investigate these issues that I've outlined to you?_

_TR: Minister Fudge relies heavily on the Auror department in these troubling times, and I'm afraid that due to security issues, the Minister's office doesn't currently have all of the pieces to form a complete picture of the situation. Minister Fudge has the utmost confidence that the Auror department will be able to handle the matter, but unfortunately the Auror department itself has suffered several setbacks, especially since the Department Head, Rufus Scrimgeour disappeared over the summer._

_RS: So, you're saying that Minister Fudge doesn't even keep tabs on the investigation?_

_TR: Certainly he does, Ms. Skeeter. It's simply not his area, and he has other matters he must attend to if we're to keep the nation running, not least international matters and his push to better integrate with the Prime Minister. I can likely tell you more about internal matters at this time than he, if you wish to hear it?_

_RS: Naturally._

_TR: I'm afraid the Auror department is simply overwhelmed, and aren't receiving the funding they need to take care of the increasingly large number of issues that are being heaped on their heads. We simply don't have a strong foundation in England to handle something as widespread as the disappearance of the ghosts, or the resources to conduct the number of interviews and investigations required to reach the root of the other disappearances. To say nothing of the more recent issues regarding the Underground and Black's escape. If a better foundation existed, that would be a different matter, but as it stands currently, we are floundering._

_RS: So, would you suggest greater funding for the Aurors, in that case?_

_TR: Absolutely, Ms. Skeeter. We need more of our funding to go to building a paramilitary and investigative force to combat these issues. Considering the disappearances, we might also consider enacting a curfew, to prevent more opportunities for this to happen. It would do wonders to increase our security and the safety of British wizards._

_RS: And Minister Fudge agrees?  
_

_TR: Minister Fudge and I are entirely in agreement on these and all issues._

_(article continued on p. 5)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to technical difficulties, this chapter was not able to be edited the way I normally edit, but will experience said edit whenever my printer ink is shipped to me.
> 
> Chapter notes and other such things can now be found on the Common Sense blog (https://commonsense-hp.blogspot.com/) and on Instagram (grohiik07).


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